five last Michaelmas, and I want you back in the old house. Let
bygones be bygones. I shall always be, your affectionate father,

'THOMAS TOLLER.

'PS.--You can have the same bedroom you had when your own mother was
alive.'


The furniture, modern stuff, was sold, every stick of it, and Miss
Toller rejoiced when the spring sofa and chairs which had been
devoted to Poulters and Goachers and Taggarts were piled up in the
vans. The nightmares of fifteen years hid themselves in the mats
and carpets.

Helen and she standing at the dresser ate their last meal in the
dingy kitchen of Russell House. It was nothing but sandwiches, but
it was the most delicious food they had tasted there. It is a
mistake if you are old to go back to the village in which you were
born and bred. Ghosts meet you in every lane and look out from the
windows. There are new names on the signboard of the inn and over
the grocer's shop. A steam-engine has been put in the mill, and the
pathway behind to the mill dam and to the river bank has been
closed. The people you see think you are a visitor. The church is
restored, and there is a brand new Wesleyan chapel. Better stay
where you are and amuse yourself by trying to make flowers grow in
your little, smoky, suburban back-garden. But Miss Toller and Helen
were not too old. Mr. Toller met them at the station with a four-
wheeled chaise. Before the train had quite stopped, Helen caught
sight of somebody standing by the cart which was brought for the