parting when Stephen's beard had been pressed so roughly against his face
that it had hurt him--and he had had nothing to say. He would write that
very night if They--the unknown Gods to whose kingdom he journeyed--would
allow him. This comforted him a little and the spirit of adventure stirred
in him anew. He wiped his eyes for the last time with the crumpled ball of
his handkerchief, sniffed three times defiantly, and settled to a summary
of the passing country, cows, and hills and hedges, presently the pleasing
bustle of Truro station, and then again the cows and hills and hedges. On
parting from Cornwall he discovered a new sensation, and was surprised
that he should feel it. He did not know, as a definite fact, the exact
moment when that merging of Cornwall into Devon came, and yet, strangely in
his spirit, he was conscious of it. Now he was in a foreign country, and
it was almost as though his own land had cast him out so that the sharp
appealing farewell to the Grey Hill, Treliss, and the sea was even more
poignant than his farewell to his friends had been. Once more, at the
thought of all the ways that he loved Cornwall, the choking sob was in his
throat and the hot tears were in his eyes, and his hands were clenched. And
then he remembered that London was not in Cornwall, and if he were ever
going to get there at all he must not mind this parting.

"What the devil are you crying about?" came suddenly from the other side of
the carriage. He looked up, and saw that there was an old gentleman sitting
in the opposite corner. He had a red fat face and beautiful white hair.

"I'm not crying," said Peter, rather defiantly.

"Oh! yes, you are--or you were. Supposing you share my lunch and see
whether that will make things any better."

"Thank you very much, but I have some sandwiches," said Peter, feeling for