Love of home, of England, of his own people—­of the Archdeacon, in even his most full-voiced and moralizing mood—­love of things tested, accustomed and friendly, touched him to the quick.  Suddenly he asked himself to what end was he leaving all these and going forth to encounter untried conditions, an unknown Nature, a moral and social order equally unknown?  Looking at the peaceful, ethereally lovely landscape, set in such close proximity and notable contrast to the unrest of that historic highway of the nations, the Channel sea, he felt small and lonely, childishly diffident and weak.  All the established safety and comfort of home, all the thoughtless irresponsible delights of vanished boyhood, pulled at his heart-strings.  He wanted, wanted wildly, desperately, not to go forward but to go back.

Mind and body being healthy, however, the phase was a passing one, and his emotion, though sincere and poignant, of brief duration.  For young blood—­happily for the human story, which otherwise would read altogether too sad—­defies forebodings, gaily embraces risks; and, true soldier of fortune, marches out to meet whatever fate the battlefield of manhood may hold for it, a song in its mouth and a rose behind its ear.

Tom Verity speedily came to a steadier mind, pouring honest contempt upon his momentary lapse from self-confidence.  He was ashamed of it.  It amounted to being silly, simply silly.  He couldn’t understand, couldn’t account for it.  What possessed him to get a regular scare like this?  It was too absurd for words.  Sentiment?—­Yes, by all means a reasonable amount of it, well in hand and thus capable of translation—­if the fancy took you—­into nicely turned elegiac verse; but a scare, a scare pure and simple, wasn’t to be tolerated!  And he got up, standing astraddle to brace himself against the swinging of the train, while he stretched, settling himself in his clothes—­pulled down the fronts of his waistcoat, buttoned the jacket of his light check suit; and, taking off his wide-awake, smoothed his soft, slightly curly russet-coloured hair with his hand.  These adjustments, and the assurance they induced that his personal appearance was all which it should be, completed his moral restoration.  He stepped down on to the platform, into the serene light and freshness, as engaging and hopeful a youth of three and twenty as any one need ask to see.

“For The Hard?  Very good, sir.  Sir Charles’s trap is outside in the station yard.  One portmanteau in the van?  Quite so.  Don’t trouble yourself about it, sir.  I’ll send a porter to bring it along.”

This from the station-master, with a degree of friendly deference far from displeasing to the recipient of it.