XV. 



A HEATHER EPISODE. 



I FLUNG myself on the heath outside the 

 house just now, with my friend the Editor. 

 He edits a London literary journal, and dis- 

 believes in everything. He is critical and 

 sceptical. When he inherits glory (as he 

 surely must do in time, for his is the noblest 

 and purest and best of souls at bottom, in 

 spite of its gruffness), I believe he will gaze 

 about him at the golden floor and the walls 

 of chrysoprase, and murmur to himself, 

 " Humph ! Not all it's cracked up to be ! " 

 Yet he is as tender as a woman, and as 

 simple as a child ; though he has found out 

 the fact that the world is hollow, and that 

 the human doll is stuffed with sawdust. 

 113 i 



