countryside quite alone, a distinguished man, with my rug and
umbrella. A strange footman touched his hat, an old, stooping porter
stared hard at me, then smiled vaguely, while the guard, eyeing
respectfully the individual for whom his train had halted, waved his
red flag, and swung himself into the disappearing van with the
approved manner we once thought marvellous. I left the empty
platform, gave up my ticket to an untidy boy, and crossed the gloomy
booking-hall. The mournfulness of the whole place was depressing. I
heard a blackbird whistle in a bush against the signal-box. It seemed
to scream.

Mother I first saw, seated in the big barouche. She was leaning back,
but sat forwards as I came. She looked into my face across the wide
interval of years now ended, and my heart gave a great boyish leap,
then sank into stillness again abruptly. She seemed to me exactly
the same as usual--only so much smaller. We embraced with a kind of
dignity:

"So here you are, my boy, at last," I heard her say in a quiet voice,
and as though she had seen me a month or two ago, "and very, very
tired, I'll be bound."

I took my seat beside her. I felt awkward, stiff, self-conscious;
there was disappointment somewhere.

"Oh, I'm all right, mother, thanks," I answered. "But how are you?" And
the next moment, it seemed to me, I heard her asking if I was hungry;--
whereupon, absurd as it must sound, I was aware of an immense emotion
that interfered with my breathing. It broke up through some repressive
layer that had apparently concealed it, and made me feel--well, had I