Agnes had been right in supposing that Bob would not come in. Thomas pressed him a little, but he shook his head, and turned the horse and climbed back into the trap. Once there, however, he did not drive away, but sat watching his father with that new knowledge in his face. Thomas thought he was hesitating, after all, and went back to him when he had led the old man through the gate, but Bob only bent a little over the wheel, and told him something in a lowered tone. Both remembered, as they looked at each other, another evening on the marsh.... Kit stayed where Thomas had planted him in the track, looking in front of him towards the mountains and the sea. Now he could look at the house without anything in between, and forget the shock of the gate that swung behind. The house, at least, seemed just as it had been, true to his trust and faithful to his dream. Just so it had looked a thousand days before, with the yew’s tall finger pointing to the sky. Even in his most absent moods he had never neglected the yew, but had managed to keep it smooth as a quill pen. He had liked to see its shadow fall clean against the house, the one thing black and sharp in his coloured, shifting life. Windows and roofs he saw, orchard and yard; garden and hedge and the white penthouse of the porch. The light lay over it all like the blessing of a hand, and when he came to it, it would bless him, too. Just for a moment, however, he watched it from afar, comparing it, inch by inch, with the picture in his heart. No, it had not failed him, in spite of his fear, and he was safe. The substance had not broken in his fingers and crushed the dream. A passion of thankfulness swept over him as he stood, and then, turning to look for Thomas, he saw the gate. IV