“Ah, Miss Kathie, doan’t ’ee think that I’d forget ought about ’ee. Not likely. And your mother in a fine takin’, poor soul, too. We’re a-coming to P’lynt Cross now, sir—as famous as any spot o’ ground in the ’ole of Glebeshire, sir—Hup, then! Hup, then—Whey—Oh! oh! Hup, then!” They pulled to the top, leaving the wood in the dip behind them. The wind met them, flinging its salt and freshness in their faces with a rough, wild greeting. Philip could hear suddenly the humming of the telegraph wires, as though they had sprung from their imprisonment in the valley and were chanting their victory. To his left, vague and formless under the starlight, stretched Pelynt Moor, waiting there, scornfully confident in its age and strength and power, for daylight. The salt wind flung its arms around them and dragged them forward; Philip, listening, could hear, very stealthily, with the rhythm of armed men marching, the beating of the sea.... “Now we’re near—now we’re very near. It’ll be Garth Cross in a minute. There it is. Now we turn off down to the Almshouses. We don’t really come into the village.... There are the Almshouses and the Common.... Now round the corner.... There it is—there’s the Gate—the Gate!... Oh! Philip, are you _happy_?” She was crying a very little: her eyes were blurred as they turned up the long drive, past all the rhododendron bushes, past the lawn with the giant oak at the farther end of it, round the curve to the hall door, with Rebekah standing under the porch to welcome them. Philip was down, and had helped her to the ground. She stood a little away from them all as they laughed and chattered about the door. She wiped her eyes with her gloved hand to stop the tears. Philip was conscious of standing in a long dark hall with stairs at the end of it and a large oak chest with a glass case that contained a stuffed bird taking up much of the space; that, he always afterwards remembered, was his first impression of the house, that it was absurd to put so large a chest just there where everyone would knock against it. A misty babel of talk surrounded him: he was conscious of a tall old woman wearing a high, stiffly-starched white cap: she had a fine colour, very dark red cheeks, hair a deep black and flashing eyes. She must be between sixty and seventy, but her body was straight and vigorous. This was, he supposed, Rebekah. He saw, in the background, old Mr. Trenchard being helped up the stairs by Rocket; he heard Aunt Betty in a happy twitter, “Ah, now, this is nice ... this _is_ nice ... how nice this is.” He heard Mrs. Trenchard’s slow, sleepy voice: “No—the train was punctual, Rebekah, quite punctual. We had luncheon on the train ... yes, we were quite punctual.”