[Boston—Friday, 28 September 1866]
Friday a perfect day. J. said as we walked up the road in Lancaster, having left the cars, “there is magic in it” and I believe there was. All thought of “things” and “people” dropped away leaving only the divine rest of affection permanent as the blue above us and full of peace as the yellow leaves of the ash which lay out motionless on the unstirred branches. The Nashua river was sparkling in the sunshine and I half worried the occupant of an old house whose antique porch opened upon a sloping green sward but a few paces from the water-side. Certainly nothing could be more picturesque in this exceptional season, better than England I thought, better than anything, such retirement as this! It was a day of happiness. Saw Mr Bartol’s lovely children at the station and talked with them while we waited for the train—the youngest is a queer imaginative little boy less than three years old. He saw me take out my watch to observe the time—sometime after he said murmurously—“I have got one watch fastened on my side.”
