He walked over the moor and rejoined the St. Renny track with the sense of relief that we all get when one of two ways has been definitely discarded.  He had even ceased to worry over what decision Old Tring had come to, though when he made out the Parson’s figure coming towards him his heart gave a leap and then beat more quickly than its wont.  He hastened his steps to meet him.

Boase waved his hat in a gesture of triumph, as though to signal that all was well, and his first shouted words told Ishmael that this was not to be the end of his career at St. Renny.  With the knowledge went a queer little pang of disappointment; he had so been accustoming his mind to the glamour of expulsion in circumstances such as his.  The Parson, in whose philosophy it would have held nothing but disaster, was beaming with joy.  He sat down on a stretch of turf and Ishmael lay beside him, waiting.

“In the first place, the injury isn’t serious.  Carron, the surgeon from Plymouth, says it’s nothing in the world but a muscle torn away, that is painful but not dangerous.  He says he does not know why the boy made such a fuss; he can see nothing to account for delirium.  I could have given a guess, but refrained....  Anyway, I’ve been having a talk with Dr. Tring—­”

Ishmael kept an ungrateful silence; it seemed to him that week had been all talks.

The Parson waited a second and then, with a tiny pang of disappointment, went on: 

“It is to be all right; everything is to be as it was before.  I know you feel that is impossible, but it will hurt less and less with time, believe me.  Character is what counts in the long run, Ishmael.  And I have seen—­I can’t tell you how proudly—­that you have character, that it has made its mark here.  That shows in the way this affair has been taken.  So pull yourself together; tell yourself how little it all really matters, and you’ll find it is so.”

A wave of affection for his friend went over Ishmael as he listened to the words that really fitted his case so little and were so kindly spoken.  He felt in a flat muddle, unaware whether he wished he did feel all he was expected to or glad he did not; but one good thing the Parson’s words accomplished.  They purged him of the artificial standpoint of the afternoon.  It was impossible for one as naturally direct as Ishmael to be in contact with so much of singleness of purpose as the Parson’s and not be ashamed of his own impulses towards theatrical vision.  He turned his head away to hide his emotion, which the Parson took to spring from the news he had imparted and welcomed with relief.  He took the boy’s hand and pressed it, a thing rare for him, who was so sensitive of others’ wishes he generally left physical expression to them in the first place.

“Shall we be getting back?” he said, after a moment.

As they were walking over the moor a gleam of sun shone out, wavered, then strengthened, and before a soft breeze the mist began to vanish, only clinging here and there in the pockets of the moor like fine white wool rubbed off the backs of phantom sheep.  For a while they strode in silence; then the Parson said: