Not all the castles are for ourselves alone. In childhood it is our school, our club, our town that is to be the centre of great events. The young man's castle is a nest to which he hopes to bring a mate. The mother sees the future coronet or laurel-wreath round the soft hair of her baby's head. And we all build castles for the world sometimes--at least for our own country or our own race. Sometimes we knock them down and rebuild again in rather different shape--Mr Wells has taught us what a fascinating game it is. Sometimes, especially perhaps in little, unimportant things, our imagination does centre chiefly around our own activities. What we mean to do, what we might do, what we would like to do: there must be something else besides selfishness and waste of time in the constantly recurring thoughts. Who does not know the charm of looking down the theatre-list of the morning paper? One may be too busy or two poor to go often to the play, but the very suggestion of all the colour and interest is pleasant. Who does not like looking over prospectuses of lectures and classes at the beginning of the winter session? "I _should_ like to go to that course on Greek Art. Oh, it is on Mondays, then that is no good. German, elementary and conversation. How useful that would be! Gymnasium and physical culture; how I wish I had another evening in the week to spare!" Railway books, again, and guides and travel bills--how delightful they are! It is easy to plan out tours for one's holidays up to the age of 100. "Brittany; oh yes, I must go there one day. And Norway, that must really be my next trip." The Rockies, the cities of the East, coral islands of the Pacific--they all seem to enrich our lives by the very thought of their possibilities. Again, who does not love a library catalogue? To go through with a pencil, noting down the names of books one wants to read is a form of castle-building by no means to be despised. Some people get the same pleasure out of house-hunting; they see an empty house and go and get the key in order to see over it. The chances of their ever living there are practically none, but the view gives a stimulus to their inventive activity: they plan out how they would furnish the rooms and fill the empty hearths with dreams. Is not the same thing the explanation of shop-gazing? The woman who has bought her winter coat and hat does not as a rule refrain from looking any more into shop windows till the spring; instead, she clothes herself in imagination in all the beautiful stuffs she sees displayed, and if some of the things demand ballroom, racecourse, golf links or perhaps the Alps for the background, why, so much the better, the suggestion puts, as it were, a view from the windows of her castle in the air.