“Wilson—Dick Wilson, by all the gods!” The traveller had started up from the parapet, and had held out a pair of red and sinewy hands to Richard. “It is Dick Wilson, despite the gods,” he said. “You have honored Rodenham—at last.” “I tramped down from town with my pack on my shoulders.” “To see the youngster whom you nursed through a fever at Rome.” They shook hands with great good-will, a sly smile playing about the painter’s rugged face. “And do you mean to tell me, sir,” he laughed, “that you are not ashamed of such a vagabond? Why, I have been twice in peril of the stocks as I came through from town.” “Ashamed, Dick!” The painter indulged in a ludicrous grimace, turned up his brown coat to show the frayed lining thereof, remarked that he had a hole in his breeches, and at the same time brandished his scarlet bundle. “If your polite pride can stand this, Richard Jeffray,” he said, “then, sir, I will come inside.” Richard laughed, and put his hand on the painter’s shoulder. “Wilson,” he said, “I think we have seen enough of the world to know what polite trifles are worth.” “Egad, sir, then we must have outstripped humanity in our philosophies.” There was no doubt as to Richard’s sincerity. He and Dick Wilson had spent months together in Italy, and the lad had learned to admire the robust but often cross-grained artist. “How long can you stay, eh? Why not spend the spring and summer with me? I am alone save for an aunt who goes to Tunbridge before long. We can find you splendor enough in our Sussex woods and downs, even to satisfy your mighty tastes.” Wilson appeared touched by the enthusiastic sincerity of the lad’s welcome. His round face beamed, his eyes twinkled. “I was half in doubt, Jeffray,” he confessed, “whether you would be pleased to see such a scarecrow. I have already tasted something of the world’s favor, sweet for a week, sour for ten months. Deuce take me, sir, I am glad of your welcome. It is bravely given, and I thank you for it, Richard Jeffray.” IX The two Richards walked through the park towards the priory, Jeffray laughingly explaining how he had come by a broken head, and pointing out the many beauties of the place as they went. There were the cedars his father had planted, already lusty and handsome trees. Pine and beech woods spread romantic and mysterious gloom upon the slopes. Here were gnarled and dying oaks that still lived on, torn and shattered, after the storms of centuries. There on a green knoll stood the holy thorn that was said to have sprung from the bones of some old saint, and had flowered in popish days at Christmas. A myriad rushes streaked the grass-land where mole-hills studded the dew-silvered grass with brown. When they came in sight of the old house lying in the hollow, lapped in the purple gloom of the woods, its chimneys towering to the blue, its fish-ponds glimmering in the sun, Wilson stopped and laid a hand on Jeffray’s shoulder.