“What do you say,” he went on, “to a little trip all by ourselves again?”

“It would be splendid,” said Lewis, eagerly.  Then, after a pause:  “It would be fun if we could take Cellette along, too.  She’d like it a lot, I know.”

“Yes,” said Leighton, dryly, “I don’t doubt she would.”  He seemed to ponder over the point.  “No,” he said finally, “it wouldn’t do.  What I propose is a man’s trip—­good stiff walking.  We could strike off through Metz and Kaiserslautern, hit the Rhine valley somewhere about Duerkheim, pass through Mannheim with our eyes shut, and get to Heidelberg and the Neckar.  Then we could float down the Rhine into Holland.  That’s the toy-country of the world.  Great place to make you smile.”

Lewis’s eyes watered.

“When—­when shall we start?”

“We’ll start to start to-morrow,” said Leighton.  “We’ve got to outfit, you know.”

Two days later they were ready.  Cellette kissed them both good-by.  Leighton gave her a pretty trinket, a heavy gold locket on a chain.  She glanced up sidewise at him through half-closed eyes.

“What’s this?” she asked in the tone of the woman who knows she must always pay.

“Just a little nothing from Lewis,” said Leighton.  “Something to remember him by.”

“So,” said Cellette, gravely.  “I understand.  He will not come back.  It is well.”

Leighton patted her shoulder.

“You are shrewd,” he said.  Then he added, with a smile:  “Too shrewd.  He will be back in two months.”

A fiacre carried them beyond the fortifications.  The cabman smiled at the generous drink-money Leighton gave him, spit on it, and then sat and watched father and son as they stepped lightly off up the broad highway.  “Eh!” he called, choking down the curses with which he usually parted from his fares, “good luck!  Follow the sun around the earth.  It will bring you back.”

Leighton half turned, and waved his arm.  Then they settled down to the business of walking.  They dropped into their place as a familiar part of the open road of only a very few years ago, for they were dressed in the orthodox style:  knickerbockers; woolen stockings; heavy footwear; short jackets; packs, such as once the schoolboy used for books; and double-peaked caps.

Shades of a bygone day, where do you skulk?  Have you been driven,

   Up, up, the stony causeway to the mists above the glare,
   Where the smell of browsing cattle drowns the petrol in the air?

CHAPTER XXIV

Just before they left Paris a letter had come for Lewis—­a big, official envelop, unstamped.  He tore it open, full of curiosity and wonder.  Out fell a fat inclosure.  Lewis picked it up and stared.  It is always a shock to see your own handwriting months after you have sent it off on a long journey.  Here was his own handwriting on a very soiled envelop, plastered over with postmarks.  How quaint was the superscription, how eloquent the distant dates of the postmarks!  “For Natalie.  At the Ranch of Dom Francisco, on the Road to Oeiras, in the Province of Ceara, Brazil.”