Yet, as he went along over the bridge with the fresh air blowing in his face, full of plans and purposes mostly theoretical or material, and with that buoyant consciousness of well-being and well-doing, of merit and the reward of merit in his whole being, little breaks of sentiment came in. Edgeley, which he had not seen so long, the dear, little old house which most likely would seem so shrunken and small, the rectory where he had been so familiar, and Elly--Elly who had kissed him so sedately when he bade her good-bye. A little quiver of silent laughter went over him now at the thought of that simple token of half-childish affection. It was strange to think how Elly would receive him when he went back--not with a kiss, that was certain. Would it be with the same friendship as of old? There had been changes at Edgeley, yet not anything to make a break in the perfection of the picture. Mr. Cattley had lately (and against his will, John felt sure) been promoted to a living; and Percy was coming as curate in his stead. Percy, the curate! that made him laugh within himself once more. He wondered if Percy would be as of old when he was one of the other boys--or if he would think John Sandford, the young engineer, not good enough for the close relations of schoolboy times. John smiled at this, with the smile of conscious worth, not likely to be moved one way or another by what Percy might think. But it would be curious to go back in so different a guise and position to that old familiar scene. He was glad to think of taking Susie for a holiday anywhere, but perhaps if truth were to be told he would rather have taken her anywhere else than there. With home she had no associations. She would interfere, even though she was too gentle, too unassuming, to interfere consciously, with a scene she had nothing to do with, and into which her image had never come. And he dismissed that mild image somewhat summarily from his thoughts. After all, she would be no more than a bystander. The interest of this revival of old associations lay entirely with himself. He had to pass the office on the way to his rooms. It was in Great George Street, and all was very quiet, not very well lighted by the lamps, silent and vacant, with scarcely a light anywhere in the windows. There was a lamp, however, near Messrs. Barrett’s door, and he saw, for some time before he came up, a figure seated on the steps. What was anyone doing there? With a keen sense of proprietorship in the place, and a determination to have no loiterers about, John went up to the door. As it happened it was not one figure but two, dimly made visible by the lamp, one sitting half-erect propped up against the door, the other bending over him, calling him, shaking him occasionally. ‘Come along, can’t ye: take my arm, you’ll soon get your legs again. Get up, don’t ye ’ear me? This ain’t a place to stay.’ ‘Let me alone,’ moaned the other, feebly, ‘I can go no further.’