There was a good deal of the school-boy’s pleasure in the commencement of the holidays, mixed with the pride that he felt in his new condition. There were only a few passengers for Porchester, and only a few people on the platform when he alighted; but the few there were knew him, and Oxford made the chief matter of their inquiries, and a pleasant topic for him to dilate upon. But he was soon hurried off by two of his admiring younger brothers, and seated at the side of old John, the factotum, in the pony-carriage, talking hard, now to him, now to his brothers, who sat behind. How familiar the road was! Did green hedges ever look so green as those? or was summer twilight ever so sweet as this that lay so peacefully about little Porchester? The old church-tower rose like a soft shadow from the close trees. There, beside it, peeped the vicarage gables and chimneys. There was old Sally, the laundress, resting at her gateway, rubbing her wrinkled fingers as though she would smooth away the signs of so much soap and water. There was the postmaster putting up the shutters of his little grocery-shop; the tailor in his garden, tending his standard roses; the blacksmith at his silent smithy; there were the carrier’s horses just being unharnessed from the van that in these primitive parts was no mean rival of the railway. A few children here; a knot of women there, chattering, scolding, laughing, staring, questioning; there a group of men outside the “Anchor;” here some boys playing marbles. How unchanged it all was! The term at Oxford seemed like a dream. Frank could scarcely believe he had been away more than two months. Now they are passing the vicarage garden. The gate is open, and Frank, much to the amusement of Tom and Will in the hind-seat of the pony-carriage, stares hard through the white posts and up the lawn. Whatever his thoughts or hopes may have been, they are rudely interrupted (and most probably shattered) by a couple of voices from behind, which seem to be bubbling over with amusement, and to be jostling each other for the first and loudest place. “She’s away!” “Who’s away?” asked Frank quietly, with assumed indifference. “Who’s away?” repeat the two behind. “Why, who’re you looking for, eh?” “_Are_ the vicarage people away, then?” said Frank. “Rose is,” again comes from the bubbling voices. But before the subject can be pursued further, old John, pointing with his whip, says,-- “There’s the master, sir.” And Frank, looking straight away up the road, discerns his father coming towards them, and jumps out of the carriage. “Why, Frank, my boy, I declare you’ve grown!”