“Wish ’ee well, Farmer Tossell!” cried one or two.  “Sheep all right, I hope?”

“Right as the bank, my dears!” called back the old patriarch, waving a whip he had caught from one of the farm-boys.  “The same to you, an’ many of ’em!”

They mounted the hill at a run, and when the horses dropped to a walk Farmer Tossell explained to Arthur Miles, who had been thrust forward into a seat—­or rather perch—­beside him, that this bringing home of the sheep from Holmness was a great annual event, and that he was lucky, in a way, to have dropped in for it.

“The whole family turns out—­all but the Old Woman an’ Dorcas.  Dorcas is my eldest.  They’re t’home gettin’ the supper.  A brave supper you’ll see, an’ the preacher along with it.  I dunno if you ’re saved. . . .  No?  P’r’aps not, at your age.  I was never one for hurryin’ the children; bruisin’ the tender flax, as you might say. . .  But you mustn’t be upset if he alloods to you. . . .  A very powerful man, when you’re used to ’en.  So you’ve a message for Miss Sally?  Know her?”

The boy had to confess that he did not.

“Curious!” the farmer commented.  “She’s one of the old sort, is Miss Sally.  But you can’t get over to Culvercoombe to-night:  to-morrow we’ll see. . . .  What’s your name, by the way?”

“Arthur Miles.”

“And your sister’s?”

“She’s called Tilda; but she—­she isn’t really—­”

Farmer Tossell was not listening.

“You’ll have to sleep with us to-night.  Oh,” he went on, misinterpreting the boy’s glance behind him (he was really seeking for Tilda, to explain), “there’s always room for one or two more at Inistow:  that’s what you might call our motto; and the Old Woman dotes on children.  She ought to—­havin’ six of her own, besides nine of my first family.”

The wagon had reached a short break in the ascent—­you might liken it to a staircase landing—­where the road ran level for about fifty yards before taking breath, so to speak, for another stiff climb.  Here a by-road led off to the right, and here they turned aside.

The road ran parallel, or roughly parallel, with the line of the cliffs, between low and wind-trimmed hedges, over which, from his perch beside Farmer Tossell, the boy looked down across a narrow slope of pasture to the sea.  The fog had lifted.  Away and a little above the horizon the sun was dropping like a ball of orange flame in a haze of gold; and nearer, to the right of the sunset, lay the Island as if asleep on the waves, with glints of fire on the pointed cliffs at its western end, and all the rest a lilac shadow resting on the luminous water.

He gazed, and still gazed.  He heard no longer, though the farmer was speaking.  There was indeed some excuse, for the young men and girls had started another hymn, and were singing with all their voices.  But he did not even listen.

The road rose and dipped. . . .  They came to a white-painted gate, which one of the young men sprang down to open.  The last glow of the sunset fell on its bars, and their outline repeated itself in dazzling streaks on the sky as the horses wheeled to the left through the gateway, and the boy turned for a last look.  But Holmness had disappeared.  A brown ridge of stubble hid it, edged and powdered with golden light.