“And you do not mind the heat?” he asked.  “Those who go East to live return to find our summers oppressive.”

“Oh, I’m a salamander, I think,” Alison laughed.

Thus they sat chatting, interrupted once or twice by urchins too small to join in the game, who came running to Mr. Bentley and stood staring at Alison as at a being beyond the borders of experience:  and she would smile at them quite as shyly,—­children being beyond her own.  Her imagination was as keen, as unspoiled as a child’s, and was stimulated by a sense of adventure, of the mystery which hung about this fine old gentleman who betrayed such sentiment for a mother whom she had loved and admired and still secretly mourned.  Here, if there had been no other, was a compelling bond of sympathy . . . .

The shadows grew longer, the game broke up.  And Hodder, surrounded by an argumentative group keeping pace with him, came toward them from the field; Alison watched him curiously as he turned this way and that to answer the insistent questions with which he was pelted, and once she saw him stride rapidly after a dodging delinquent and seize him by the collar amidst piercing yells of approval, and derision for the rebel.

“It’s remarkable how he gets along with them,” said Mr. Bentley, smiling at the scene.  “Most of them have never known what discipline is.”

The chorus approached.  And Hodder, recognizing her, dropped the collar he held:  A young woman conversing with Mr. Bentley—­was no unusual sight, —­he had made no speculations as to this one’s identity.  He left the boys, and drew near.

“You know Miss Parr, I believe,” the old gentleman said.

Hodder took her hand.  He had often tried to imagine his feelings if he should meet her again:  what he should do and say,—­what would be their footing.  And now he had no time to prepare . . . .

“It is so strange,” she said, with that note of wonder at life in her voice which he recalled so well, “that I should have come across Mr. Bentley here after so many years.  How many years, Mr. Bentley?”

“Ah, my dear,” he protested, “my measurements would not be yours.”

“It is better for both of us not to say, Alison declared, laughingly.

“You knew Mr. Bentley?” asked Hodder, astonished.

“He was a very dear friend of my mother’s, although I used to appropriate him when he came to our house.  It was when we lived in Ransome Street, ages ago.  But I don’t think Mr. Bentley has grown a bit older.”

“He is one of the few who have found the secret of youth,” said the rector.

But the old gentleman had moved off into the path, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was carried off by the swarm which clustered around him, two smaller ones tugging at his hand, and all intent upon arriving at the soda-water pavilion near the entrance.  They had followed him with their eyes, and they saw him turn around and smile at them, helplessly.  Alison presented a perplexed face to Hodder.