society of other men you need. Try and persuade George and Harris to go with you. Believe me, a highly strung brain such as yours demands occasional relaxation from the strain of domestic surroundings. Forget for a little while that children want music lessons, and boots, and bicycles, with tincture of rhubarb three times a day; forget there are such things in life as cooks, and house decorators, and next-door dogs, and butchers' bills. Go away to some green corner of the earth, where all is new and strange to you, where your over-wrought mind will gather peace and fresh ideas. Go away for a space and give me time to miss you, and to reflect upon your goodness and virtue, which, continually present with me, I may, human-like, be apt to forget, as one, through use, grows indifferent to the blessing of the sun and the beauty of the moon. Go away, and come back refreshed in mind and body, a brighter, better man--if that be possible--than when you went away."

But even when we obtain our desires they never come to us garbed as we would wish. To begin with, Ethelbertha did not seem to remark that I was irritable; I had to draw her attention to it. I said: "You must forgive me, I'm not feeling quite myself tonight." She said: "Oh! I have not noticed anything different; what's the matter with you?" "I can't tell you what it is," I said; "I've felt it coming on for weeks." "It's that whisky," said Ethelbertha. "You never touch it except when we go to the Harris's. You know you can't stand it; you have not a strong head." "It isn't the whisky," I replied; "it's deeper than that. I fancy it's more mental than bodily." "You've been reading those criticisms again," said Ethelbertha, more sympathetically; "why don't you take my advice and put them on the fire?" "And it isn't the criticisms," I answered; "they've been quite flattering of late--one or two of them." "Well, what is it?" said Ethelbertha; "there must be something to account for it." "No, there isn't," I replied; "that's the remarkable thing about it; I can only describe it as a strange feeling of unrest that seems to have taken possession of me." Ethelbertha glanced across at me with a somewhat curious expression, I thought; but as she said nothing, I continued the argument myself. "This aching monotony of life, these days of peaceful, uneventful felicity, they appall one." "I should not grumble at them," said Ethelbertha; "we might get some of the other sort, and like them still less." "I'm not so sure of that," I replied. "In a life of continuous joy, I can imagine even pain coming as a welcome variation. I wonder sometimes whether the saints in heaven do not occasionally feel the continual serenity a burden. To myself a life of endless bliss, 

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