But there is another journey, far more often undertaken by the young and by all those who needs must seek—­the brave, the energetic, the good.  It is towards a country distant yet ever near, and it lies much removed from the Far Country where swine feed.  Its minarets stand up against a clear and cloudless sky, its radiancy shines from afar off.  It is set on a hill, and the road thither is very steep and very long, but the Pilgrims start out bravely.  They know the way!  They carry torches!  They have the Light within and without, and “watchwords” for every night, and songs for the morning.  Some walk painfully, with bleeding feet, on the path that leads to the beautiful country, and some run joyously with eager feet.  Whatever anyone likes to say, it is a much more crowded path than the old trail towards the pigsty.  At the first step of the journey stand Faith and Hope and Charity, and beyond are more wondrous things by far—­Glory, Praise, Vision, Sacrifice, Heroism, sublime Trust, the Need-to-Give, and the Love that runs to help.  And some of the Pilgrims—­most of them—­get there.

[Page Heading:  DISAPPOINTMENT]

But there is a little stream of Pilgrims sometimes to be met with going the other way.  They are returning, like the Prodigal, but there is no one to welcome them.  Some are very tragic figures, and for them the sun is for ever obscured.  But there are others—­quite plain, sober men and women, some humorists, and some sages.  They have honestly sought the Country, and they, too, have unfurled banners and marched on; but they have met with many things on the road which do not match the watchwords, and they have heard many wonderful things which, truthfully considered, do not always appear to them to be facts.  They have called Poverty beautiful, and they have found it very ugly; and they have called Money naught, and they have found it to be Power.  They have found Sacrifice accepted, and then claimed by the selfish and mean, and even Love has not been all that was expected.  The Pilgrims return.  Their poor tummies, too, are empty, but no calf is killed for them, there is no feasting and no joy.  They stay at home, but neither Elder Son nor Prodigal has any use for them.  In the end they turn out the light and go to sleep, regretting—­if they have any humour—­their many virtues, which for so long prevented them enjoying the pleasant things of life.

* * * * *

March.—­I lie in bed all day up here amongst these horrible snows.  The engineer comes in sometimes and makes me a cup of Benger’s Food.  For the rest, I lean up on my elbow when I can, and cook some little thing—­Bovril or hot milk—­on my Etna stove.  Then I am too tired to eat it, and the sickness begins all over again.  Oh, if I could leave this place!  If only someone would send back my car, which has been taken away, or if I could hear where Mrs. Wynne and Mr. Bevan are!  But no, the door of this odious place is locked, and the key is thrown away.