He could scarcely walk quietly, for joy at the return of his friend, and skipped from side to side, pouring out questions and answering them himself as children and women do.
But Barebone gave him only half of his attention and looked before him with grave eyes, while the boy talked of nests and knives.

Barebone was looking toward the garden, concealed like an intrenchment behind the dyke.

It was a quiet evening, and the rector was walking slowly backward and forward on the raised path, made on the dyke itself, like a ship-captain on his quarter-deck, with hands clasped behind his bent back and eyes that swept the horizon at each turn with a mechanical monotony.

At one end of the path, which was worn smooth by the Reverend Septimus Marvin's pensive foot, the gleam of a white dress betrayed the presence of his niece, Miriam Liston.
"Ah, is that you ?" asked the rector, holding out a limp hand.

"Yes.