‘Do as you like, Charley,’ I said. ‘I will do as you do,’ he answered. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I have no right--’ ‘Oh! bother!’ said Clara. ‘You’re so magnificent always with your rights and wrongs! Are you coming, or are you not?’ ‘Yes, I’m coming,’ I replied, convicted by Clara’s directness, for I was quite ready to go. We crossed the court, and strolled through the park, which was of great extent, in the direction of a thick wood, covering a rise towards the east. The morning air was perfectly still; there was a little dew on the grass, which shone rather than sparkled; the sun was burning through a light fog, which grew deeper as we approached the wood; the decaying leaves filled the air with their sweet, mournful scent. Through the wood went a wide opening or glade, stretching straight and far towards the east, and along this we walked, with that exhilaration which the fading Autumn so strangely bestows. For some distance the ground ascended softly, but the view was finally closed in by a more abrupt swell, over the brow of which the mist hung in dazzling brightness. Notwithstanding the gaiety of animal spirits produced by the season, I felt unusually depressed that morning. Already, I believe, I was beginning to feel the home-born sadness of the soul whose wings are weary and whose foot can find no firm soil on which to rest. Sometimes I think the wonder is that so many men are never sad. I doubt if Charley would have suffered so but for the wrongs his father’s selfish religion had done him; which perhaps were therefore so far well, inasmuch as otherwise he might not have cared enough about religion even to doubt concerning it. But in my case now, it may have been only the unsatisfying presence of Clara, haunted by a dim regret that I could not love her more than I did. For with regard to her my soul was like one who in a dream of delight sees outspread before him a wide river, wherein he makes haste to plunge that he may disport himself in the fine element; but, wading eagerly, alas! finds not a single pool deeper than his knees. ‘What’s the matter with you, Wilfrid?’ said Charley, who, in the midst of some gay talk, suddenly perceived my silence. ‘You seem to lose all your spirits away from your precious library. I do believe you grudge every moment not spent upon those ragged old books.’ ‘I wasn’t thinking of that, Charley; I was wondering what lies beyond that mist.’ ‘I see!--A chapter of the _Pilgrim’s Progress_! Here we are--Mary, you’re Christiana, and, Clara, you’re Mercy. Wilfrid, you’re--what?--I should have said Hopeful any other day, but this morning you look like--let me see--like Mr Ready-to-Halt. The celestial city lies behind that fog--doesn’t it, Christiana?’ ‘I don’t like to hear you talk so, Charley,’ said his sister, smiling in his face. ‘They ain’t in the Bible,’ he returned.