At night, from his dormitory window, he could see a rosy light in the sky.  At first he thought this must be a pillar of fire put there to guide him home; but it was only the glare of furnaces in a manufacturing town, not far away.  When he found this out his heart came near to break; and afterwards he pined still faster.

One evening a lecture was given in the dining-room of the Orphanage.  The subject was “The Holy Land,” and the lecturer illustrated it with views from the magic-lantern.

Kit, who sat in one of the back rows, was moderately excited at first.  But the views of barren hills, and sands, and ruins, and palm-trees, and cedars, wearied him after a while.  He had closed his eyes, and the lecturer’s voice became a sing-song in which his heart searched, as it always searched, for the music of the beach; when, by way of variety—­for it had little to do with the subject—­the lecturer slipped in a slide that was supposed to depict an incident on the homeward voyage—­a squall in the Mediterranean.

It was a stirring picture, with an inky sky, and the squall bursting from it, and driving a small ship heeling over white crested waves.  Of course the boys drew their breath.

And then something like a strangling sob broke out on the stillness, frightening the lecturer; and a shrill cry—­

“Don’t go—­oh, damn it all! don’t go!  Take me—­take me home!”

And there at the back of the room a small boy stood up on his form, and stretched out both hands to the painted ship, and shrieked and panted.

There was a blank silence, and then the matron hurried up, took him firmly in her arms, and carried him out.

“Don’t go—­oh, for the Lord A’mighty’s sake, don’t go!”

And as he was borne down the passages his cry sounded among the audience like the wail of a little lost soul.

The matron carried Kit to the sick-room and put him to bed.  After quieting the child a bit she left him, taking away the candle.  Now the sick-room was on the ground floor, and Kit lay still a very short while.  Then he got out of bed, groped for his clothes, managed to dress himself, and, opening the window, escaped on to the quiet lawn.  Then he turned his face south-west, towards home and the sea—­ and ran.

How could he tell where they lay?  God knows.  Ask the swallow how she can tell, when in autumn the warm south is a fire in her brain.  I believe that the sea’s breath was in the face of this child of seven, and its scent in his nostrils, and its voice in his ears, calling, summoning all the way.  I only know that he ran straight towards his home, a hundred miles off, and that next morning they found his canary waistcoat and snuff-coloured coat in a ditch, two miles from the Orphanage, due south-west.