The coach went rushing against the glorious high wind.  It stirred his blood, freshened his cheeks, gave a bright tone of zest to his eyes, as he cast them on the young green country.  Not banished from the breath of heaven, or from self-respect, or from the appetite for the rewards that are to follow duties done!  Not banished from the help that is always reached to us when we have fairly taken the right road:  and that for him is the road to Lymport.  Let the kingdom of Gilt Gingerbread howl as it will!  We are no longer children, but men:  men who have bitten hard at experience, and know the value of a tooth:  who have had our hearts bruised, and cover them with armour:  who live not to feed, but look to food that we may live!  What matters it that yonder high-spiced kingdom should excommunicate such as we are?  We have rubbed off the gilt, and have assumed the command of our stomachs.  We are men from this day!

Now, you would have thought Evan’s companions, right and left of him, were the wretches under sentence, to judge from appearances.  In contrast with his look of insolent pleasure, Andrew, the moment an eye was on him, exhibited the cleverest impersonation of the dumps ever seen:  while Mr. Raikes was from head to foot nothing better than a moan made visible.  Nevertheless, they both agreed to rally Evan, and bid him be of good cheer.

‘Don’t be down, Van; don’t be down, my boy,’ said Andrew, rubbing his hands gloomily.

‘I? do I look it?’ Evan answered, laughing.

‘Capital acting!’ exclaimed Raikes.  ‘Try and keep it up.’

‘Well, I hope you’re acting too,’ said Evan.

Raikes let his chest fall like a collapsing bellows.

At the end of five minutes, he remarked:  ’I’ve been sitting on it the whole morning!  There’s violent inflammation, I’m persuaded.  Another hour, and I jump slap from the summit of the coach!’

Evan turned to Andrew.

‘Do you think he’ll be let off?’

’Mr. Raikes?  Can’t say.  You see, Van, it depends upon how Old Tom has taken his bad luck.  Ahem!  Perhaps he’ll be all the stricter; and as a man of honour, Mr. Raikes, you see, can’t very well—­’

‘By Jove!  I wish I wasn’t a man of honour!’ Raikes interposed, heavily.

’You see, Van, Old Tom’s circumstances’—­Andrew ducked, to smother a sort of laughter—­’are now such that he’d be glad of the money to let him off, no doubt; but Mr. Raikes has spent it, I can’t lend it, and you haven’t got it, and there we all are.  At the end of the year he’s free, and he—­ha! ha!  I’m not a bit the merrier for laughing, I can tell you.’

Catching another glimpse of Evan’s serious face, Andrew fell into louder laughter; checking it with doleful solemnity.

Up hill and down hill, and past little homesteads shining with yellow crocuses; across wide brown heaths, whose outlines raised in Evan’s mind the night of his funeral walk, and tossed up old feelings dead as the whirling dust.  At last Raikes called out: