Ronnie left the beach and climbed the steep slope till he reached the summit, where rough grass and stones edged golden cornfields that stretched inland as far as the eye could see. No one noticed that he had gone. Miss Biddle, the holiday governess, sat reading in the shade of the cliff, absorbed in _The Blue Necklace_. His cousins, Cedric and Githa, both older than he, were building an elaborate sand-castle, according to a diagram spread on the sand, and held in place by stones laid on the four corners. When he reached the top he turned his back upon the beach, and sat down on a big stone, elbows on knees, and hands clasped under the sharp little chin that rested on them. The yellow cornfields became blurred and dim as he gazed, for Ronnie was lonely and dreadfully homesick. Everybody he cared for seemed so far away—even Uncle Gerald, the kind and understanding, was shooting in Scotland, and seemed as remote as father and mother in India. The big tears brimmed over and fell. Then everything grew clear again. It was very pretty, the corn billowing in golden waves under the soft wind; but its beauty did not cheer him. Rather did he remember dismally that last time he sat beside it insects, that he decided must be singularly silent and stealthy mosquitoes, came out and bit him so that he was all over itching lumps afterwards. All the same, he didn’t move: he was too miserable. Moreover he had that morning come to the conclusion that something must be done. He had no idea what. But ideas come with reflection. So, after a sniff or two, he unclasped his hands, polished his nose with his sleeve, and then sat very still, going over in his mind all the time since he came Home, to try to discover why there should be what he called "a kind-of-a-ness" over everything. He was quite fair. He recognised that it was partly his own fault for getting fever in the cold weather. Then, too, fate had conspired against him, for the Friths were coming Home in the middle of May. If they hadn’t been sailing then, there would have been nobody to send him with. He had been coming for good next hot weather, when he would be seven, with mother and baby-brother. They were coming then for certain. But a whole year, to a child, seems an interminable, abysmal space, that no hopes can bridge. He had known all along that he was to go to Aunt Hildegarde till mother came back—Aunt Hildegarde, who lived in a place called Golder’s Green. He knew that there was an Uncle Edward and two cousins, in fact he faintly remembered having seen them last time he came Home; but as he was only three then his impressions were somewhat hazy.