When he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an English letter and came from Yorkshire.  It was directed in a plain woman’s hand but it was not a hand he knew.  He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once.

“Dear Sir:

“I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor.  It was about Miss Mary I spoke.  I will make bold to speak again.  Please, sir, I would come home if I was you.  I think you would be glad to come and—­if you will excuse me, sir—­I think your lady would ask you to come if she was here.

“Your obedient servant,
“SUSAN SOWERBY.”

Mr. Craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope.  He kept thinking about the dream.

“I will go back to Misselthwaite,” he said.  “Yes, I’ll go at once.”

And he went through the garden to the villa and ordered Pitcher to prepare for his return to England.

* * * * *

In a few days he was in Yorkshire again, and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the ten years past.  During those years he had only wished to forget him.  Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind.  He remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead.  He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been such a weak wretched thing that every one had been sure it would die in a few days.  But to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived and then every one believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature.

He had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all.  He had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery.  The first time after a year’s absence he returned to Misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as death.  After that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper.  He could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail.

All this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was “coming alive” began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply.

“Perhaps I have been all wrong for ten years,” he said to himself.  “Ten years is a long time.  It may be too late to do anything—­quite too late.  What have I been thinking of!”