"HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS."

London was very hot, very dusty, and as dreary as Walter had
anticipated. When Lufa went, the moon went out of the heavens, the stars
chose banishment with their mistress, and only the bright, labor-urging
sun was left.

He might now take a holiday when he pleased, and he had money enough in
hand. His father wanted him to pay them a visit; but what if an
invitation to Comberidge should arrive! Home was a great way in the
other direction! And then it would be so dull! He would of course be
glad to see his father! He ought to go! He was owing there! What was he
to do? He would not willingly even run the risk of losing his delight,
for the sake of his first, best, truest earthly friend!

But he must take his holiday now, in the slack of the London year, and
the heat was great! He need not be all day with his father, and the
thought of Lufa would be entrancing in the wide solitudes of the moor!
Molly he scarce thought of, and his aunt was to be forgotten. He would
go for a few days, he said, thus keeping the door open for a speedy
departure.

Just before he left, the invitation did arrive. He would have a week to
dream about it under the old roof!

His heart warmed a little as he approached his home. Certain memories
came to meet him. The thought of his mother was in the air. How long it
was since she had spoken to him! He remembered her and his father
watching by his bed while he tossed in a misery of which he could even
now recall the prevailing delirious fancies. He remembered his mother's