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.
For some days he haunted the spot, then became a lodger at the
farm-house, and now after making some inquiries he had found
that the owner was willing to sell the place for something
more than its market value, and he was going up to London
about it.
At Waterloo I wished him happiness in his old home found again
after so many years, then watched him as he walked briskly
away - as commonplace-looking a man as could be seen on that
busy crowded platform, in his suit of rough grey tweeds, thick
boots, and bowler hat. Yet one whose fortune might be envied
by many even among the successful - one who had cherished a
secret thought and feeling, which had been to him like the
shadow of a rock and like a cool spring in a dry and thirsty
land.
And in that host of undistinguished Colonials and others of
British race from all regions of the earth, who annually visit
these shores on business or for pleasure or some other object,
how many there must be who come with some such memory or dream
or aspiration in their hearts! A greater number probably than
we imagine. For most of them there is doubtless
disappointment and disillusion: it is a matter of the heart, a
sentiment about which some are not given to speak. He too, my
fellow-passenger, would no doubt have held his peace had his
dream not met with so perfect a fulfilment.
