They passed down the village street together, nodding here and there to an acquaintance, or acknowledging the salutation of a rustic. The rector of the parish passed them on a bicycle, and the two professors of rival creeds exchanged a cordial and friendly greeting, for somehow, no one was anything other than friendly with Canon Lenthall. But it was not until they had left the village behind and had gained the open country that he began to discourse seriously with his younger friend as to the matter of which both were thinking. "Let me see. How long is it since you saw Hilary?" he began. "Oh, about half a dozen years--just before he got into that--er--mess. What a splendid chap he was, Canon. I've sometimes thought Uncle Luke was a bit hard on him that time." "You're quite wrong, Percy. Hard is the one thing your uncle could not be. Why, he's the softest hearted man in existence." "Yes, I know. But, does he really want me to go out there and hunt up Hilary?" "I believe so. As a matter of fact, we happened to be discussing that very thing just before you came in. It was a strange coincidence that you should unconsciously have brought the news you did." Percival whistled. "Were you really? Strange indeed. Well, I'm on for the scheme. It doesn't matter if I enter at the Temple now, or in six or eight months' time--and, what an experience it'll be in the mean time." They were nearing Passmore, and the chimneys and spires of the town were growing larger and larger in front of them--and already the haze of smoke was dimming the bright green of the expanse of meadow between. They had gained the wooden road-bridge, beneath which the sluggish water ran oily between the black piers, and here the Canon paused. "It will be a great thing if we can bring Hilary back to his uncle, so that they are thoroughly reconciled. But Percy, my boy--remember that so far, for all these years past you have been the first and only one near him. How will you feel when you see another first--and to all appearances of more consequence than yourself, as is natural in the case of one who has long been away. Are you sure of yourself?" But the young man burst into a free, frank and hearty laugh. "Great Scot, Canon!" he cried merrily. "What sort of a bounder are you trying to take me for? There's nothing I'd like so much as to see the dear old chap back again." The old priest gazed steadily at him for a moment, and felt greatly relieved. The answer rang so spontaneous, so true. "Well, I had that to say to you, and have said it. In fact I brought you with me now on purpose to say it. Now, good-bye my boy, and God bless you." CHAPTER THREE. BAYFIELD'S FARM.