hind her shook his head. In the thin, blown light of the candelabra which he held high, the worry and doubt of her deepened on his singularly-unlined face.
“And you might well catch your death in that draft, ma’am.”
But she only continued to stare out between the pillars where the lilac-hedge made a wall of deeper blackness across the night.
“What am I thinking of?” she whispered, and then: “There!”
And this time the old man heard it, a nearer, wind-blown hail.
“Mother! Oh, Mother!”
The boy came striding through the gap of the gate in the hedge.
“It’s I, Mother! Chris! Aren’t you surprised?”
She had no answer. As he came she turned and moved away from the door, and the old man, peering from under the flat candle-flames, saw her face like wax. And he saw the boy, Christopher, in the doorway, his hands flung out, his face transfigured.
“Mother! I’m here! Don’t you understand?”
He touched her shoulder. She turned to him, as it were, lazily.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I see.”
He threw his arms about her, and felt her shaking from head to foot. But he was shaking, too.
“I knew the way!” he cried. “I knew it, Mother, I knew it! I came down from the Moor and there was the Willow Wood, and I knew the way home. And when I came, Mother, it was like the trees bowing down their branches in the dark. And when I came by the Beach, Mother, it was like a roll of drums beating for me, and when I came to the Hill I saw the Hedge standing against the sky, and I came, and here I am!”
She expressed no wonder, asked no question.
“Yes,” was all she said, and it was as if she spoke of a tree coming to its leaf, the wind to its height, the tide to its flood.
Had he been less rapt and triumphant he must have wondered more at that icy lassitude, and at the cloak of
