And now we all go downstairs again, to find Wilcox—who we had fancied was dead—alive, and looking exactly as he did thirty years ago, handling meringues and jellies to the ladies, and suggesting coffee, sherry, claret-cup. It is all very pretty and very pleasant. Our last memory, ere we go out into the rain again, is of Jenny Northcott’s lovely face, and our hostess’s kindly farewell; and so we take our leave, feeling—well, we scarcely know how we feel! At one moment the stage flashed through my mind, but the stage had serious disadvantages my friends at the top of the tree told me. Supers can generally get work, stars can’t. Of course, I hoped to be a star, we all do, and then those kind friends told me of the weary months, perhaps years, without work of those who have reached the top and for whom there are no suitable parts—years of long-drawn-out waiting, ironically called “resting.” A very amusing account of some theatricals we had the following year, for which Weedon Grossmith and I painted the scenery, appeared in a little book by L. F. Austin, the predecessor of Chesterton on the _Illustrated London News_—Beerbohm Tree supervised the performance, and his young wife took part. Should I take up painting seriously? My love of colour and form, the fact that I had exhibited a little without lessons, seemed to point to the possibility of my doing more if I studied. Then again, a hat shop was no impossible means of livelihood, with my huge connection of friends. Or, should I give up everything, give up the battle, and just live quietly in a small cottage somewhere and look after chickens? Weeks rolled on in Finland, the notes for the book were made; parts of it were written in steamers or on railway trains, bundles of material had been collected for subsequent articles, and, most important of all, my mind was made up. _I was going to write._ By the time we had knocked about Finland for three or four months I was worn out, from worry, work, anxiety as to the future, and want of sleep. Many people in England do not realise that the midnight sun shines in Finland no less than in northern Norway, and the perpetual sense of light is wearying, inexpressibly so sometimes, to the brain. However, the notes were taken. I was steeped in the customs, habits, thoughts, and scenery of Finland, but, more important than all the rest, I had entered Finland in deepest sorrow, my mind had now been made up, flame-like—imagination had decided I would write—my spirit emerged in the house of life. Artistic life is, after all, self-development, and self-development and outward expression lay before me in my newly sought profession. Cruel doubts crept in; but the flame of desire was burning, and again and again I said to myself, “I _will_ write.” _Through Finland in Carts_ appeared in 1897, the third edition came out three years later, and others followed at intervals (now in Nelson’s 1/- library).