Not because I saw familiar objects, nor because I was going home--it was the relation in which _I_ stood to them, that I felt.

We drove through the gate, and saw a handsome little boy astride a window-sill, with two pipes in his mouth, "Papa!" he shrieked, threw his pipes down, and dropped on the ground, to run after us.
"Hasn't Arthur grown ?" Aunt Merce asked.

"He is almost seven." "Almost seven?
Where have the years gone ?" I looked about.

I had been away so long, the house looked diminished.
Mother was in the door, crying when she put her arms round me; she could not speak.

I know now there should have been no higher beatitude than to live in the presence of an unselfish, unasking, vital love.