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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
230
It
is
all
but
dark.
For
a
quarter
of
an
hour
I
must
have
been
writing
by
a
glow
of
firelight
reflected
on
to
my
desk;
it
seemed
to
me
the
sun
of
summer.
Snow
is
still
falling.
I
see
its
ghostly
glimmer
against
the
vanishing
sky.
To-morrow
it
will
be
thick
upon
my
garden,
and
perchance
for
several
days.
But
when
it
melts,
when
it
melts,
it
will
leave
the
snowdrop.
The
crocus,
too,
is
waiting,
down
there
under
the
white
mantle
which
warms
the
earth.
XXIV.
Time
is
money--says
the
vulgarest
saw
known
to
any
age
or
people.
Turn
it
round
about,
and
you
get
a
precious
truth--money
is
time.
I
think
of
it
on
these
dark,
mist-blinded
mornings,
as
I
come
down
to
find
a
glorious
fire
crackling
and
leaping
in
my
study.
Suppose
I
were
so
poor
that
I
could
not
afford
that
heartsome
blaze,
how
different
the
whole
day
would
be!
Have
I
not
lost
many
and
many
a
day
of
my
life
for
lack
of
the
material
comfort
which
was
necessary
to
put
my
mind
in
tune?
Money
is
time.
With
money
I
buy
for
cheerful
use
the
hours
which
otherwise
would
not
in
any
sense
be
mine;
nay,
which
would
make
me
their
miserable
bondsman.
Money
is
time,
and,
heaven
be
thanked,
there
needs
so
little
of
it
for
this
sort
of
purchase.
He
who
has
overmuch
is
wont
to
be
as
badly
off
in
regard
to
the
true
use
of
money,
as
he
who
has
not
enough.
What
are
we
doing
all
our
lives
but
purchasing,
or
trying
to
purchase,
time?
And
most
of
us,
having
grasped
it
with
one
hand,
throw
it
away
with
the
other.
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