The two boys in the train were very silent. Vernley immersed in a copy of "The Hill." John sat staring out of the window. But it was not the swiftly passing fields that engaged his attention, for at that moment he was exercising what Mr. Steer, in the explanation of Wordsworth's poem, had called "the inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude." John's thoughts were not at all blissful. He was feeling quite blue. The end of a glorious holiday had come, and having what another poet had called "the passion of the past," he was reluctantly taking stock of his memories. He had found delightful friends. There were Mr. and Mrs. Vernley; he could never feel quite lonely in England now. They represented home for John, being people who could understand and sympathise. There was Mr. Chadburn who had talked to him quite seriously. John had found a great friend in Mr. Steer. They had had wonderful walks together, when John had been taken into a new world that awaited his discovery. Steer had invited him to call at his house when he was in London. He wondered whether Mrs. Steer would be just as delightful. Then his thoughts turned to Muriel. She would be having her music lesson from Miss Lane now. He had made her tell him all she was going to do that day. After the music lesson she was going to visit the stables. He saw her walking round the wing of the house, he saw her small hand press the catch on the wicket gate, and her short graceful steps as she crossed the cobbled stable-yard to the corner where the horses were stabled. He knew exactly how she would lift the iron bar out of its socket, swing back the half-door, call "Bess!" and then stroke the white patch running from between the eyes down to the nose. He could even smell the stable, with that delightful manure and horsey aroma. He could see the deftness with which she slipped the bridle over Bess's head, and the firm way in which she led her out of the stable, for she insisted on attending to Bess herself, and with a sharp movement she would be in the saddle at his side, level with and laughing into his face, and their horses would walk clattering across the cobbles, before breaking into a canter in the lane. He knew every inch of that lane, just where the horses would gallop, and where they would walk. He remembered the crest of the hill, with its pattern below of fields and farmhouses and stacks; with the dim blue clumps of leafless trees, and the barren telegraph poles, carrying the singing wires across the valley towards the railway siding. Half a mile over that crest was the copse where the robin sang as he kissed her that wonderful morning when they had ridden ahead of the others.