But the old gentleman--a clergyman apparently--stood there smiling without a word as he handed him the fallen hat. He was staring rather intently into his eyes. 'Ahem!' coughed Mr. Rogers, to fill an awkward gap. 'You're very kind, sir,' and he took the hat and brushed the dust off. Something brushed off his sight and memory at the same time. 'Ahem' coughed the other, still staring. 'Please do not mention it---' adding after a second's pause, to the complete amazement of his listener, 'Mr. Rogers.' And then it dawned upon him. Something in the charming, peace-lit face was strangely familiar. 'I say,' he exclaimed eagerly, 'this is a pleasure,' and then repeated with even greater emphasis, 'but this is a pleasure, indeed. Who ever would have thought it?' he added with delicious ambiguity. He seized the outstretched hand and shook it warmly--the hand of the old vicar who had once been his tutor too. 'You've come back to your boyhood, then. Is that it? And to see the old place and--your old friends?' asked the other with his beautiful, kindly smile that even false quantities had never been able to spoil. 'We've not forgotten you as you've forgotten us, you see,' he added; 'and the place, though empty now for years, has not forgotten you either, I'll be bound.' They stood there in the sunshine on the dusty road talking of a hundred half-forgotten things, as the haze of memory lifted, and scenes and pictures, names and faces, details of fun and mischief rained upon him like flowers in a sudden wind of spring. The voice and face of his old tutor bridged the years like magic. Time had stood still here in this fair Kentish garden. The little man in black who came every Saturday morning with his dingy bag had forgotten to wind the clocks, perhaps. ... 'But you will like to go inside and see it all for yourself--alone,' the Vicar said at length. 'My housekeeper has the keys. I'll send a boy with them to the lodge. It won't take five minutes. And then you must come up to the Vicarage for tea--or dinner if you're kept--and stay the night. My married daughter-you remember Joan and May, of course?--is with us just now; she'll be so very glad to see you. You know the way.' And he moved off down the country road, still vigorous at seventy, with his black straw hat and big square-toed boots, his shoulders hardly more bent than when his mischievous pupil had called every morning with Vergil and Todhunter underneath one arm, and in his heart a lust to hurry after sleepy rabbits in the field. 'My married daughter--you remember May?'