"I shouldn't wonder but I'd ought to know you, sir," he said, "if you was ever at the Hall before. I'm getting old now, and my eyesight ain't none of the best, nor my memory nayther. I shouldn't wonder if I'd ought to know you." He peered hard still, blinking a little. "And I'm thinking now as I sees summat. It ain't—surely—Miss Herminy's cousin—young Mr. Dalrymple!" "I am Harvey Dalrymple," was the reply. "Yes—Miss Hermione's second cousin—or, if you like it, her brother." "Young Mr. Dalrymple—his very own self!" ejaculated Sutton. "Well, well, sir—I'm glad to see you anyways. And maybe it's One above has brought you home for His own purposes, sir—if so be you'll pardon an old man saying it." Dalrymple did not look offended; it was not his way to take offence easily. "I hope I am come for no bad purpose, at all events," he rejoined lightly. "After eight years' absence, it is not so very astonishing that I should turn up again for a couple of nights. You can tell Mr. Fitzalan of my sudden appearance, and say that I would have called if anybody had been indoors. By-the-bye, I have not asked yet after Miss Fitzalan." "Miss Marjory be as usual, sir. She don't never complain." "And Mr. Harry?" Sutton's face lighted up proudly. "Mr. Harry do be growed a fine young gentleman, sir—as fine a young gentleman as ever I see. And they do say he be mighty thought of at the 'Varsity, he be that clever. And as fine a young gentleman! To see him a horseback now!" The sight of Harry Fitzalan on horseback plainly went beyond old Sutton's descriptive powers. He nodded his head, and was mute. "Good day. We shall meet again," Dalrymple said, with a friendly nod. Sutton remained motionless, staring blankly after the retreating figure. "Young Mr. Dalrymple, his very own self. And I to be talking of he to he, and never a thought in my head as he'd come back. And all them years in furrin parts. Well, well, he ain't too early nor he ain't too late neither. For the old squire he be living, and Miss Herminy she ain't married. And I shouldn't wonder—no, I shouldn't." Sutton shook his scant grey locks, leaving the sentence incomplete. Meanwhile Dalrymple, following the dusty highroad by which he had already come through the village and passed the Rectory, rounded another curve and found himself close to the Church of whitish stone, matching the whitish Rectory. A square tower was dressed in a garment of aged ivy, and the windows of tinted glass had ivy fringes around them. Dalrymple knew from personal recollection how those green leaf fringes could be seen from within, showing through the dull-tinted diamond panes. He had been used to worship in this Church, week by week, through early boyhood, standing, sitting, kneeling, by his mother's side. He had been there also in later years, but the childish remembrances were the strongest.