The sun was just setting; he paused a few
moments on the bridge, watching the river with a quiet smile, and
enjoying the splendour of the sky. Up Putney Hill he walked
slowly; when he reached the top it was growing dark, but an
unwonted effect in the atmosphere caused him to turn and look to
the east. An exclamation escaped his lips, for there before him
was the new-risen moon, a perfect globe, vast and red. He gazed
at it for a long time.
When the daylight had entirely passed, he went forward on to the
heath, and rambled, as if idly, to a secluded part, where trees
and bushes made a deep shadow under the full moon. It was still
quite warm, and scarcely a breath of air moved among the
reddening leaves.
Sure at length that he was remote from all observation, he
pressed into a little copse, and there reclined on the grass,
leaning against the stem of a tree. The moon was now hidden from
him, but by looking upward he could see its light upon a long,
faint cloud, and the blue of the placid sky. His mood was one of
ineffable peace. Only thoughts of beautiful things came into his
mind; he had reverted to an earlier period of life, when as yet
no mission of literary realism had been imposed upon him, and
when his passions were still soothed by natural hope.
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