"That's the name! That's the name," he cried. "Woodyyates-
how did I ever forget it! You knew it then - where was it?"
"I'll just show you," said the old man, proud at having
guessed rightly, and turning started slowly hobbling along
till he got to the end of the lane.
There was an opening there and a view of the valley with
trees, blue in the distance, at the furthest visible point.
"Do you see them trees?" he said. "That's where Harping is;
'tis two miles or, perhaps, a little more from Thorpe.
There's a church tower among them trees, but you can't see it
because 'tis hid. You go by the road till you comes to the
church, then you go on by the water, maybe a quarter of a
mile, and you comes to Woodyates. You won't see no difference
in it; I've knowed it since I were a boy, but 'tis in Harping
parish, not in Thorpe."
Now he remembered the name - Harping, near Thorpe - only Thorpe
was the more important village where the inn was and the
shops.
In less than an hour after leaving his informant he was at
Woodyates, feasting his eyes on the old house of his dreams
and of his exiled father's before him, inexpressibly glad to
recognize it as the very house he had loved so long - that he
had been deceived by no false image.
