in town, and caught the next train home. When we arrived at Newcastle we took one of the station cars. I was staying at Derryaghy to complete my convalescence; so Mrs. Carroll stopped at our house to give my father the news, telling me to drive on by myself. The October sunlight, still with a little of the warmth of summer in it, slanted through the trees, as I drove in at the lodge—gate. There was a charming autumnal languor in the still air—a kind of dreamy, happy beauty, which made me think of some verses of La Fontaine's :—
L'innocente beauté des jardins et des jours
Allait faire à jamais le charme de ma vie."
And, far out on the dark sea, a white sail gleamed in the sun.
The thought of leaving it all behind me, and of passing the rest of my life in exile, was too painful to dwell upon; yet I knew that, once I went away, I might very easily never be back. It had struck me that the doctor had been anything but optimistic, and I knew this meant that my chance must be a pretty poor one.
I went upstairs to my own room. I sat down in my old window-seat and began a letter to Owen, which I did not finish, for it occurred to me that, later on, I might have more definite news to give him; and, at any rate, if I were going away, he must come down first to stay with me. With my incomplete letter before me I sat dreaming. I wondered if, in years to come, another boy would have this room as his own, and sit in this window-seat; and if his thoughts would for a moment perhaps touch mine? All my thoughts would be dead then; my dreams vanished; the life that had unfolded here be gone out. A feeling of sadness stole over me. I had been a very little chap when I had first taken possession of this room. If the ghost of that little boy, who had been me, could only come back, how I should have hugged him! For I loved him: he seemed
