"
He was silent for a little, musing, till I said, "Will you not tell me
some of your own adventures? I am sure from your look that you have
them; and you are a pilgrim, it seems. Where are you bound?"
"Oh," he said lightly, "I am not one of the people who have
adventures--just the journey and the talk beside the way."
"But," I said, "I have seen some others like you, and I am puzzled about
it. You seem, if I may say so--I do not mean anything disrespectful or
impertinent--to be like the gipsies whom one meets in quiet country
places, with a secret knowledge of their own, a pride too great to be
worth expressing, not anxious about life, not weary or dissatisfied,
caring not for localities or possessions, but with a sort of eager
pleasure in freedom and movement."
He laughed. "Yes," he said, "you are right! I am no doubt a sort of
nomad, as you say, detached from life perhaps. I don't know that it is
desirable; there is a great deal to be said for living in the same place
and loving the same things. Most people are happier so, and learn what
they have to learn in that manner."
"Yes," I said, "that is true and beautiful--the same old house, the same
trees and pastures, the stream and the water-plants that hide it, the
blue hills beyond the nearer wood--the dear familiar things; but even so
the road which passes through the fields, over the bridge, up the
covert-side .
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