In the five years of his absence he had grown quite tall for his age, with a certain dignity and self-possession of bearing acquired from becoming accustomed to depend upon himself.  All that was left of the nut-brown curls that used to flow over his shoulders were the clustering ringlets that covered his head and framed his large brow.  His absence had also wrought in him other and more subtle changes which did not appear to the friends who remarked upon what a great boy he had grown—­a maturity from having lived in another world—­from having had his thoughts expanded by new scenes and quickened by the suggestions of historic association and surroundings.

But with his return, England and Stoke-Newington sank into the shadowy past—­their spell weakened, for the time being, by the thought-absorbing, heart-filling scenes of which he had now become a part.  The years at the Manor House School were as a dream—­this was the real thing—­this was Home. Home—­ah, the charm of that word and all it implied!  His heart swelled, his eyes grew misty as he said it over and over to himself.  The clatter of drays “down town” was like music in his ears, the dusty streets of the residential section were fair to his eyes for old time’s sake.  How he loved the very pavement under his feet, rough and uneven as it was; how dearly he loved the trees that he had climbed (and would climb again) which stretched their friendly boughs over his head!

In a state of happy excitement he rushed about town, visiting his old haunts to see if they were still there, and “the same.”

“Comrade,” his brown spaniel—­his favorite of all his pets—­had grown old and sober and had quite forgotten him, but his love was soon reawakened.  The boys he had played with, too, had almost forgotten him, but his return called him to mind again and put them all in a flutter.  A boy who had lived five years on the other side of the ocean and had been to an English boarding school, was not seen in Richmond every day.  Mrs. Allan gave him a party to which all of the children in their circle were invited.  In anticipation of this, he had purchased in London, out of the abundance of pocket-money with which his doting foster-mother always saw to it he was provided, a number of little gifts to be distributed among the boys at home.  These, with the distinction his travels gave him, made him the man of the hour among Richmond children.  And how much he had to tell!  At Stoke-Newington it was always the boys at home that were the heroes of the stories he spun by the yard for the entertainment of his school-fellows—­the literal among whom had come to believe that there was no feat a Virginia boy could not perform.  Now that he was in Richmond, the Stoke-Newington boys themselves loomed up as the wonder-workers, and his playmates listened with admiration and with such expression as, “Caesar’s ghost!”—­“Jiminy!”—­“Cracky!” and the like, as he narrated his tales of “Freckles,” “Goggles,” “the Beau,” and the rest.