Well, it happened last year I came back on business,--another confounded legacy; end of June too, just as I was off to Finland. But Messrs. Thimble and Rigg, the highly respectable firm who look after my affairs, represented that I owed it to others, whom I kept out of their share of the legacy, to stay near town till affairs were wound up. They told me, with a view to reconcile me perhaps, of a trout stream with a decent inn near it,--an unknown stream in Kent. It seems a junior member of the firm is an angler; at least he sometimes catches pike or perch in the Medway, some way from the stream where the trout rise in audacious security from artificial lures. I stipulated for a clerk to come down with any papers to be signed, and started at once for Victoria. I decline to tell the name of my find, firstly because the trout are the gamest little fish that ever rose to fly, and run to a good two pounds; secondly, I have paid for all the rooms in the inn for the next year, and I want it to myself. The glove is lying on the table next me as I write. If it isn't in my breast-pocket or under my pillow, it is some place where I can see it. It has a delicate gray body (Suede, I think they call it), with a whipping of silver round the top and a darker gray-silk tag to fasten it. It is marked 5-3/4 inside, and has a delicious scent about it,--to keep off moths, I suppose; naphthaline is better. It reminds me of a "silver-sedge" tied on a ten hook. I startled the good landlady of the little inn (there is no village, fortunately) when I arrived, with the only porter of the tiny station, laden with traps. She hesitated about a private sitting-room; but eventually we compromised matters, as I was willing to share it with the other visitor. I got into knickerbockers at once, collared a boy to get me worms and minnow for the morrow; and as I felt too lazy to unpack tackle, I just sat in the shiny arm-chair (made comfortable by the successive sitting of former occupants) at the open window, and looked out. The river (not the trout stream) winds to the right, and the trees cast trembling shadows into its clear depths; the red tiles of a farm roof show between the beeches, and break the monotony of blue sky background. A dusty wagoner is slaking his thirst with a tankard of ale. I am conscious of the strange lonely feeling that a visit to England always gives me. Away in strange lands, even in solitary places, one doesn't feel it somehow,--one is filled with the hunter's lust, bent on a "kill;" but at home in the quiet country, with the smoke curling up from some fireside, the mowers busy laying the hay in swaths, the children tumbling under the trees in the orchards, and a girl singing as she spreads the clothes on the sweetbrier hedge,--amid a scene quick with home sights and sounds, a strange lack creeps in and makes itself felt in a dull, aching way. Oddly enough, too, I had a sense of uneasiness, a "something going to happen." I had often