158 AUGUST 



Jim when he was going for a few hours to Oxford, 

 jumping into the train with him just as it was on 

 the point of starting. He was lost in the High 

 Street, evidently through following the wrong cab. 

 He would be twenty-two years old if he were still 

 alive, but I have never ceased to miss him, and 

 none of my many other dogs have taken his place 

 in my affections. 



Aug. jo. There are days when one wakes up 

 with the mind "oppressed," as it seems, "with the 

 burden of an unintelligible world." Very often this 

 comes from a kind of unconscious prescience of evil, 

 such as a visit from the rate-collector or some other 

 uncomfortable person. To-day, for instance, I have 

 been haunted by such an unaccountable woe, and 

 not until evening was it explained by a call from 

 the Converted Camberwell Cadger. I came upon 

 him unexpectedly as I was going out into the 

 garden, so there was no escaping my fate. I could 

 hardly say "Not at home" to a Camberwell Cadger 

 who was staring me actually in the face. Words 

 cannot describe how for twelve long months I have 

 dreaded this meeting. The consciousness of guilt 

 has weighed me down until at times life has not 

 seemed worth living while I had so pitiful a secret 

 locked up in my bosom. But now that I have 

 broken the silence in part to my diary, I will go on 

 and reveal the whole sad story, in the hope that 

 with confession peace may once more come back 

 to me. 



It was just a year ago that I was bicycling back 

 from a garden-party when, on our village green, I 

 came upon a temperance van, from which the 



