In the first weeks the days were long; they often, at their finest, gave me what I used to call my own hour, the hour when, for my pupils, teatime and bedtime having come and gone, I had, before my final retirement, a small interval alone. Much as I liked my companions, this hour was the thing in the day I liked most; and I liked it best of all when, as the light faded⁠—or rather, I should say, the day lingered and the last calls of the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees⁠—I could take a turn into the grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense of property that amused and flattered me, the beauty and dignity of the place. It was a pleasure at these moments to feel myself tranquil and justified; doubtless, perhaps, also to reflect that by my discretion, my quiet good sense and general high propriety, I was giving pleasure⁠—if he ever thought of it!⁠—to the person to whose pressure I had responded. What I was doing was what he had earnestly hoped and directly asked of me, and that I could