Maurice had telegraphed from Liverpool, and the old-fashioned carriage from Hunsdon met them at the last railway station.

It was near sunset, and under a clear sky the soft rich green of the grass gleamed out with the brightness of spring.

They soon turned into the park, and the house itself began to be visible through the budding, but still leafless, trees.

Both father and son were silent.

To the one, every foot of the road they traversed was haunted by the memories of thirty years ago; to the other, this coming home was a step towards the fulfilment of his hopes.