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effect of these long, unhappy months, anyhow, was to emphasize another, and that the principal side, of my nature. The daily effort of forcing myself to do what I hated so intensely, was succeeded by the equal and opposite reaction of enjoying tremendously my free hours of relaxation. When the swing-doors closed behind me, my mind closed too upon all memory of the hated Hub. It was shut out, forgotten, non-existent. I flew instinctively to what comforted and made me happy. Gorged with the reading of poetry and of idealistic, mystical books, an insatiable sense of wonder with a childish love of the marvellous added to it, my disappointing experience of practical realities demanded compensation as a safety-valve, if as nothing more. I found these in Nature, music, and in the companionship of a few people I will presently describe. Out of those prison-like swing-doors I invariably went, either with the fiddle-case in my hand, or with food in my pocket and a light cloak as blanket for sleeping out. Concerts and organ recitals were not enough; more than to listen, I wanted to play myself; and Louis B was usually as enthusiastic as I. The music was a deep delight to me, but the sleeping under the stars I enjoyed most.

Those lonely little camp fires have left vivid pictures in the mind. An East-bound tram soon took one beyond the city, where the shores of Lake Ontario stretched their deserted sands for miles. There was always fresh water to be found for boiling tea, lots of driftwood lying about, and the sand made a comfortable bed. Many a night of that sweet Indian summer I saw the moon rise or set over the water, and lay watching the stars until the sunrise came. One spot in particular was a favourite with me, because, just over the high loam cliffs that lined E