His dreams grew upon him after the fiddle came back, chiefly because now he very seldom went out. He could not walk very far, and no matter where he went, it was sure to be against the rules. He was forbidden the other houses in the row, and the river-bank and his potterings on the footpath by the wall. If he went out at all, it was on an errand of Marget’s to the shops, but he had lost the wish to go out, just as he seemed to have lost the wish to play. In these days his fingers never went unknowingly to the strings. Even now that the fiddle was safe, he went on sitting in his room, and for some unstated reason Marget let him be. So his mind was often away on its travels over the marsh, and the body that was left grew quieter every day. The time seemed to be getting near for that last mounting of the stairs. Those who saw him about then said that he “wouldn’t be so long.” And now, after all the days, had come the order of release. Thomas had got the farm in the end, and straight away asked for his father to come home. Not only his mind but his body could go to the place for which he cried. He could go to a son who would ease his remaining days and a daughter awaiting him with open arms. Of course he was glad to be going, thankful beyond words; too thankful and anxious, indeed, for his content. He could have taken it simply and easily, earlier on, but after all this time it loomed too large. Before, it would have been inevitable and right, but now it seemed to him more than a little strange. As he sat waiting for them to come and take him away, he was conscious of the discomfort and even terror of change. He felt both the reluctant weariness of the old—for whom every shift on the road may be the last—and the fear of the dreamer that his dream may prove untrue. The idealist always shrinks from fulfilment just at the last, and Kit was shrinking and suffering all through. He dreaded the emotional strain through which he would have to pass, longing with shame for his wretched bed and the quiet communion with his tree. Nevertheless he reached forward eagerly to his dream, knowing that he must accept it now, even if he slew both it and himself. Steadily, at the back of his mind, shone the golden glory of the marsh. He sat patiently, as the old sit who have to husband their strength, but he was filled with a feverish aching to be off. His nervous energy ebbed continually during this long pause before the start. He had a miserable fear that he might refuse to go when it came to the point. He saw himself making for his room as soon as the trap appeared, an obstinate, desperate old animal slinking to its lair. Marget would curse and hammer on the door, and he would cower on the bed in silence, holding his breath. When they were tired of it they would leave him alone, and his heart would stop shaking itself out of its place. He would hear the trap drive away out of his life, and know in that instant all that he had missed....