Taking the cinder-path that skirts the railway, the kindly touch of familiar things which have ceased to have power to perplex or terrify came to his aid. It was along this path that he had gone to the Mission Hall Sunday by Sunday, the waters of his soul troubled with the frenzy of apostleship, but it was along this path that he had returned often and again arm in arm with a tender kindly Mr. Kestern who had shared all his son's enthusiasms and sympathised in his distresses. Here, as a schoolboy, he had counted trains or trudged eagerly home from school for a Saturday afternoon excursion. Here, more adult, he had been first conscious of sex stimulus (though then and now he did not so label it) in the company of Madeline and Edith. Edith! Yes, it was of Edith that he thought mostly as he walked home. She had been reserved and sorrowful on his going to Fordham, had replied more and more tardily to letters, had finally ceased to write at all. But he too had ceased. Anyone as sensitive as Paul to surroundings would have felt an incongruity between Edith Thornton and Fordham Manor, and then, too, he had been going through an emotional stress big enough to dominate his mind. But now, back here in the home atmosphere, he thought very warmly of her. He longed for her simplicity, her naïve faith. It did not seem to him a barrier between them. After all, with the sight of the Beggar-Man, it was easy to enfold her in tenderness and understanding. Thus, then, he came at last to his father's door, waited impatiently for the maid to open it, dropped his bag in the little hall, and turned impulsively to the figure of Mr. Kestern irresolute in the study door. "Dad," he cried, "it is good to see you again! How are you? How's mother?" "Oh, Paul!" The love, the sorrow, the yearning of Mrs. Kestern's cry stabbed him suddenly and unexpectedly to the heart. She had rushed past her husband and flung her arms about his neck. Emotion welling up in him, he bent his head to kiss her, and felt the hot tears on her cheek. "Oh, my boy, my boy.... You've come at last, Paul. Oh, my son, you'll never doubt your mother's love for you, will you? Kiss your father, Paul. I cannot lose either of my men." Paul was already bewildered. The pathos of her grip on his arm, and the significance of her eagerness to see the greeting between him and his father, were not lost upon him. His mother clinging to him, he turned to his father, who had not stirred. "Of course I've come, mother darling," he said. "But I've been terribly busy, you know. And it's awfully jolly seeing you and daddy again. (He used the childish word unconsciously.) How are you, father?"