Paul was bitterly disappointed. He had unreasonably counted on finding his bedroom walls adorned with the old prints of Queen Victoria and Sir John Macdonald. He craved the musty smell of the rag barrel and the box of lump sugar in the attic. Even the playroom was desecrated. The piano had been moved out to make room for Mrs. Barker's bed.
He walked away from the house, turning up the road. Mr. Kestrell's windmill creaked faintly in response to the evening breeze, and a light shone at the kitchen window. He had a desire to run in and greet the mother of the famous star—but refrained. He must make a complete tour of the village before paying calls.
The schoolyard showed traces of the "programme of athletic sports," and the "greased pig contest" that had been held there in the afternoon. Peanut shells and empty popcorn packets abounded. Eager children were already beginning to gather for "the grand fireworks display." As he passed he heard one urchin whisper: "Hey, skinny, look at the dude!" He was amused to learn that the supply of young "skinnies" had not given out. He presumed there were still "fatties," and "Scotties," and "shrimps."
A dusty motor-car in front of Walter's gate bore witness to the continued prosperity of the Dreers. The dark-red Ashmill house far beyond the hedge of rusty cedars was provincially august.
Finally the Baptist church, wooden, whitewashed. Its spire had once appeared to him the loftiest point in the world! He walked up the gravel avenue. A branch of an old acacia tree still brushed the window next to the Meddar pew. In imagination, he could smell the stale odour of leather-bound hymnbooks and red rep cushions, could hear the thud of the organ lid as he pushed it over the keys, the muffled rush of air as old Silas turned on the water power. He could even remember the num-
