To my father’s surprise, George did not raise so many difficulties as he had expected.  He said it might be done, if neither he nor my father were to go beyond the statues.  “And difficult as it will be for you,” said George, “you had better come a second day if necessary, as I will, for who can tell what might happen to make the first day impossible?”

“Then,” said my father, “we shall be spared that horrible feeling that we are parting without hope of seeing each other again.  I find it hard enough to say good-bye even now, but I do not know how I could have faced it if you had not agreed to our meeting again.”

“The day fixed upon will be our XXI. i. 3, and the hour noon as near as may be?”

“So.  Let me write it down:  ’XXI. i. 3, i.e. our December 9, 1891, I am to meet George at the statues, at twelve o’clock, and if he does not come, I am to be there again on the following day.’

In like manner, George wrote down what he was to do:  “XXI. i. 3, or failing this XXI. i. 4.  Statues.  Noon.”

“This,” he said, “is a solemn covenant, is it not?”

“Yes,” said my father, “and may all good omens attend it!”

The words were not out of his mouth before a mountain bird, something like our jackdaw, but smaller and of a bluer black, flew out of the hollow mouth of one of the statues, and with a hearty chuckle perched on the ground at his feet, attracted doubtless by the scraps of food that were lying about.  With the fearlessness of birds in that country, it looked up at him and George, gave another hearty chuckle, and flew back to its statue with the largest fragment it could find.

They settled that this was an omen so propitious that they could part in good hope.  “Let us finish the wine,” said my father, “and then, do what must be done!”

They finished the wine to each other’s good health; George drank also to mine, and said he hoped my father would bring me with him, while my father drank to Yram, the Mayor, their children, Mrs. Humdrum, and above all to Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter.  They then re-packed all that could be taken away; my father rolled his rug to his liking, slung it over his shoulder, gripped George’s hand, and said, “My dearest boy, when we have each turned our backs upon one another, let us walk our several ways as fast as we can, and try not to look behind us.”

So saying he loosed his grip of George’s hand, bared his head, lowered it, and turned away.

George burst into tears, and followed him after he had gone two paces; he threw his arms round him, hugged him, kissed him on his lips, cheeks, and forehead, and then turning round, strode full speed towards Sunch’ston.  My father never took his eyes off him till he was out of sight, but the boy did not look round.  When he could see him no more, my father with faltering gait, and feeling as though a prop had suddenly been taken from under him, began to follow the stream down towards his old camp.