He could not remember that before his dark years he had felt particularly young for his age, or cared for young society; but now his heart seemed full of irrepressible torrents of youth. He wanted to be with boys and girls, to hear their shouts, to share their laughter, to join in their games--not as a "grown-up," but as one of themselves. Why did every one expect him to have grown old in prison? Sorrow does not always make old, it often makes young. It sends a man back pleading to the forgotten days of his youth, struggling to recapture them once more, and bring their carelessness into his awful care. To-day he lost his troubles in finding grasses and leaves for Tony's collection. After a time her constraint wore off. She chattered to him about school friends, lessons and games, daring adventures and desperate scrapes. That day he found such a mood more sweet to him than any glimpse of pity or understanding she could have shown. He might want her compassion--the woman in her--sometimes, but only transiently; what he wanted most was the child in her, for it answered the sorrow-born child crying in the darkness of his heart. They scrambled in the hedges for bloody-twig and bryony, they gathered the yellowing hazel, and bunches of strange pods. Nigel was able to tell her the names of many plants and bushes she had not known before--he was wonderfully enthusiastic, and loved to hear about the botany walks at school, and the other collections she had made, which had sometimes won prizes. It was past noon when they turned home. The distances were dim, hazed with mist and sunshine. A faint wind was stirring in the trees, and now and then a shower of golden leaves swept into the lane, whirled round, then fluttered slowly to the grass. Some rain had fallen early in the morning, and the hedges were still wet, sending up sweet steams of perfume to the cloud-latticed sky. Nigel spoke suddenly. "Do your parents know about me?" "They know about East Grinstead, but not about Brambletye." "Shall you tell them?" "No--I don't think I shall. I--I'm not at all sure what they'd say if they knew all the facts." "Nor am I," said Nigel grimly. "Besides, I hate telling people about things I really enjoy--it spoils it all, somehow. You don't think it's wrong, do you?" "No--why should it be?" "I don't know--only whenever a thing's absolutely heavenly, one can't help thinking there's something wrong about it." "Well, I don't see why there should be anything wrong about this. I'm lonely, and so are you--why shouldn't we be friends?" "I've never done anything like it before. It's funny that father and mother are so awfully particular, for they don't bother about me much in other ways. I'm nearly always alone when I'm at Shovelstrode. Father's busy, and mother's not strong, and Awdrey has so many people to go about with." "And when you come back from a long walk, no one asks you where you've been, or whom you've met?"