The streets of London irritated him with their noise, and the people with their hurrying. The pavement tired his feet, the manner of life--that is, the manner of life to be had on so small an income as his--he found irritating and almost impossible. One day he packed a knapsack, filled his pouch, walked through Putney and Wandsworth and onward. He breathed more freely when he reached Wimbledon, which had then an almost rustic railway station and not a building near it, drew a long breath at Surbiton, and, blessing the beautiful county of Surrey, trudged on with a light heart. It was thus that he arrived at Chidhurst and discovered Woodside Farm. Chidhurst is some miles from Farnham, from Liphook and Fernhurst, from Blackdown and Hindhead--from anywhere, in fact, with which the reader may try to identify it. Its nearest station is Haslemere, and that is five or six miles off. The village consists of a few cottages, one of which is a general shop and the other a small beer-house. Against the side wall of the beer-house there is a pillar-box, but stamps have to be bought at Haslemere or of the local postman. There is not even a smithy, man and beast must alike travel three good miles to be reshod--to the blacksmith's near the cobbler's on the common. A little way from the village, standing high among the wooded land on the right, is the church. It is half covered with ivy; there are white tombstones round it, and on its square tower a clock that is seldom right and never to be trusted. From the churchyard there is a divine view: fir woods in the foreground, beech woods to the left, heather moors to the right, and blue in the distance--soft and misty in the memory of those who love them--are the Surrey hills. A beautiful spot to stay and muse in on a drowsy summer day, a blessed one to sleep in when time has met eternity.