"It's been a tremendously long and interesting journey," I said.
"Yes," he answered. "Ten miles by rail and ten by stage. I suppose you've had a great many adventures!"
"Oh, yes!" I cried, and ached to tell them, but feared this was not the place. I saw my uncle respectfully helping the bishop to alight, and heard him inquiring for his health, and the bishop answering in his kind, deep voice, and saying I was indeed a good traveller and saw all there was to see—and a little more. The king shook hands with me, and this time said two words: "Good luck." Uncle had no idea who he was—no one had seen him before. Uncle didn't quite like his looks. But I did. He was uncommon; he was different. I thought of all those people in the train who had been so alike. And then I remembered what unexpected differences they had shown, and turned to smile at my uncle.
"I should say I have had adventures!" I cried.
"We'll get home to your aunt," he said, "and then we'll hear all about them."
We crossed a bridge above the roaring mill-race, went up a lane, and entered Arcadia. That was the way it seemed to me. It was really a cottage above a stream, where youth and love dwelt, and honour and hospitality, and the little house was to be exchanged for a greater one where—though youth departed—love and honour and hospitality were still to dwell.
"Travel's a great thing," said my uncle, as he helped me off with my jacket.
"Yes," I answered, solemnly, "it is a great privilege to see the world."
I still am of that opinion. I have seen some odd bits of it, and I cannot understand why it is that other journeys have not quite come up to that first one, when I heard of Aunt Ellen, and saw the boy turn the surprised somersault, and was welcomed by two lovers in a little Arcadia.