By Charles Howard Hinton
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What their secret is I know not, mine is humble enough—the inward apprehension of space. And I have often thought, travelling by railway, when between the dark underground stations the lads and errand boys bend over the scraps of badly printed paper, reading fearful tales—I have often thought how much better it would be if they were doing that which I may Many Dimensions. ” ’Twould be of infinite delight, romance, and interest; far more than are those creased tawdry papers, with no form in themselves or in their contents.
A well-worn path led to an arbour overgrown with clematis, beyond was a dense undergrowth shutting in the little region like a wall. Standing there a sound fell on my ears which surprised me. A faint and momentary sound gives but little indication of direction, yet I thought some one was in the arbour, sobbing. I walked along the path and looked in. There was no one there. The furniture of the little summerhouse consisted of a table, an arm-chair, a bench, and a smaller chair. The sound I heard, or fancied I heard, was not repeated; there was nothing save the noise of the branches of the sheltering trees swaying in the wind.
Enclosed was a letter from Frank which explained her remark. He wrote that a patient had just died under a complication of disorders he might never have the opportunity of examining again. He was sure Churton would manage much better alone. The only practical suggestion he made was that the horses and dogs should be given to the neighbours, such, that is, as Churton did not care to keep for himself. “Frank,” Mrs. ” So Churton started for Beechwood by himself. Shortly after this date I left England.