On the evening before his departure from Hampton Court, with the consent and approval of Captain Hawkins (who was himself present, and sang a remarkably good and much-applauded song), Wilfred gave a grand dinner to all the men of his troop in an ancient brew-house amongst the offices of the Palace, which was lent by the authorities, and gorgeously decorated for the occasion. This banquet went off merrily enough, but the Lieutenant was affected almost to tears when the troopers, at its close, presented him with a beautiful gun, purchased by much self-denial on their part, as a parting gift to the comrade they had loved, and the officer whom they had honoured. The following morning the party left for the North. When they reached the station of Oswaldshaugh, which was the nearest to Holmcastle, they found themselves in the midst of the greatest excitement. The station yard was crammed with carriages full of ladies--and those who know North Lancashire the best, will best imagine how lovely many of those ladies were--all anxious to see the Victoria Cross man and hero of Candahar. With them were a goodly number of country gentlemen, mostly on horseback, and at their head the old white-haired Lord Lieutenant, the Earl of Grangemouth, and there was not a yeoman or farmer in all Arrow Dale who was not there, each bestriding his stout nag. The Clitheroe Volunteers, too, were present in force, and were supposed to be drawn up in line; but when Wilfred, who, sorely against his will, and only in accordance with the commands of the Duchess and the entreaties of his sister, wore his uniform and Victoria Cross, appeared with his sister outside the station, they broke their ranks, and hustled and bustled, and roared and shouted, and committed every possible breach of military decorum and decency. And then it turned out that the Railway Company, knowing the taste of North-countrymen for an _aout_, had run an excursion train from Preston up to Oswaldshaugh, full of fine working-men, who wished to see the arrival of “the Lancashire Hero,” and among them was a young fellow, in bandsman’s military uniform, who was shouting at the top of his voice, with an old, white-haired, widowed mother clinging to him, who cried for joy as if her old heart would break entirely. And in this brave lad Wilfred recognised the young trumpeter in whose behalf he had erewhile, amidst the Himalayan mountains, thrashed the bully, Corporal Tozer. The lad was indeed a native of Preston, and, being home on furlough, had come up with his old mother to see and welcome his protector. In short, _The Preston Guardian_ declared Wilfred’s reception to be “a magnificent Ovation;” but the worthy reporter might have used a stronger and (in the absence of a shower of rotten eggs) more correct expression, for in truth it was a perfect triumph.