remember him by."

"So," said Cellette, gravely. "I understand. He will not come back. It
is well."

Leighton patted her shoulder.

"You are shrewd," he said. Then he added, with a smile: "Too shrewd. He
will be back in two months."

A fiacre carried them beyond the fortifications. The cabman smiled at
the generous drink-money Leighton gave him, spit on it, and then sat and
watched father and son as they stepped lightly off up the broad highway.
"Eh!" he called, choking down the curses with which he usually parted
from his fares, "good luck! Follow the sun around the earth. It will
bring you back."

Leighton half turned, and waved his arm. Then they settled down to the
business of walking. They dropped into their place as a familiar part of
the open road of only a very few years ago, for they were dressed in the
orthodox style: knickerbockers; woolen stockings; heavy footwear; short
jackets; packs, such as once the schoolboy used for books; and
double-peaked caps.

Shades of a bygone day, where do you skulk? Have you been driven,


Up, up, the stony causeway to the mists above the glare,
Where the smell of browsing cattle drowns the petrol in the air?