6o THE LIFE OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



hollow of my hand — carefully, lest the sand should be 

 disturbed — and the sunlight gleamed on it as it slipped 

 through my lingers. Alone in the green-roofed cave, 

 alone with the sunlight and the pure water, there was a 

 sense of something more than these. The water was 

 more to me than water, and the sun than sun. The 

 gleaming rays on the water in my palm held me for a 

 moment, the touch of the water gave me something from 

 itself. A moment, and the gleam was gone, the water 

 flowing away, but I had had them. Beside the pli3'sical 

 water and physical light, I had received from them their 

 beauty ; they had communicated to me this silent mystery. 

 The pure and beautiful water, the pure, clear, and beauti- 

 ful light, each had given me something of their truth. 



' So many times I came to it, toiling up the long and 

 shadowless hill in the burning sunshine, often carrying 

 a vessel to take some of it home with me. There was a 

 brook, indeed ; but this was different, it was the spring ; 

 it was taken home as a beautiful flower might be brought. 

 It is not the physical water ; it is the sense or feeling that 

 it conveys. Nor is it the physical sunshine ; it is the sense 

 of inexpressible beauty which it brings with it. Of such I 

 stm drink, and hope to do so still deeper.' 



Sacramental, too, was the looking out at the hills and 

 stars over the hills before he slept. But not yet were 

 these things entirely removed from the dreaminess of 

 childhood. He speaks of ' dreaming his prayer,' of 

 wandering over the hills all day in search of, I think, 

 he knew not what. Had he known what he sought, had 

 he even realized that he was in search of something, it 

 could hardly have failed to impress his writings long before 

 * The Story of My Heart.' He was far more conscious of 

 the poverty and bitterness, the loneliness and necessity of 

 concealment from hostile or indifferent eyes, the injuries 

 to his vanity, such as he attributed to Felix in ' After 

 London.' 



In September, 1867, he was very ill. He wrote to his 

 aunt to say that while, a few days ago, he could walk 



