They turned and walked, side by side, on the top of the sea-wall toward the rectory. Their figures must have been outlined against the sky, for any watching from the river. The girl, tall and strong, walking with the ease that comes from health and a steadfast mind; the eager, restless boy running and jumping by her side. Barebone must have seen them as soon as they saw him. They were part of Farlingford, these two. He had a sudden feeling of having been away for years, with this difference--that he came back and found nothing changed. Whereas, in reality, he who returns after a long absence usually finds no one awaiting him. He did as Sep had foretold--crossing to the far side of the river, and then gaining the mouth of the creek in one tack. Miriam and Sep had reached the rectory garden first, and now stood waiting for him. He came on in silence. Last time--on "The Last Hope"--he had come up the river singing. Sep waved his hand, and, in response, Barebone nodded his head, with one eye peering ahead, for the breeze was fresh. The old chain was still there, imperfectly fastened round a tottering post at the foot of the tide-washed steps. It clinked as he made fast the boat. Miriam had not heard the sound of it since that night, long ago, when Loo had gone down the steps in the dark and cast off. "I was given a passage home in a French fishing-boat, and borrowed their dinghy to come ashore in," said Loo, as he came up the steps. He knew that Farlingford would want some explanation, and that Sep would be proud to give it. An explanation is never the worse for a spice of truth. "Miriam told me you were never coming home again," answered Sep, still nourishing that grievance. "Well, she was wrong, and here I am!" was Loo's reply, with his old, ready laugh. "And here is Farlingford--unchanged, and no harm done." "Why should there be any harm done?" was Sep's prompt question. Barebone was shaking hands with Miriam. "Oh, I don't know," he answered. "Because there always is harm done, I suppose." Miriam was thinking that he had changed; that the man who had unmoored his boat at these steps six months ago had departed for ever, and that another had come back in his place. A minute later, as he turned to close the gate that shut off the rectory garden from the river-wall, chance ruled it that their eyes should meet for an instant, and she knew that he had not changed; that he might, perhaps, never change so long as he lived. She turned abruptly and led the way to the house. Sep had a hundred questions to ask, but only a few of them were personal. Children live in a world of their own, and are not slow to invite those whom they like to come into it, while to the others, they shut the door with a greater frankness than is permissible later in life. "Father," he explained, "has gone to see old Doy, who is dying."