276 MASTER SKYLARK

meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of silvery
willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped
beneath tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes
peeped out of hazel copses by the road. The passing carts
had a familiar look, and at Alderminster Nick saw a man
he thought he recognized.

Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge
Hill.

There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one
stick or stack or stone but he could put his finger on and
say, “This place I know!” Green pastures, grassy levels,
streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the manor-house,
the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden beyond
itall. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above
the clustering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and
blossom-white ; to left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up
beside the shining Avon. Bull Lane he made out dimly,
and a red-tiled roof among the trees. “There, Cicely,” he
said, “there—there!” and laughed a queer little shaky
laugh next door to crying for joy.

Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. “ Hullo,
there, Wat! I be come home again!” Nick cried. Wat
stared at him, but knew him not at all.

Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Mor-
rison burst in at the guildschool door. “Nick Attwood ’s
home!” he shouted; and his eyes were like two plates.

Then the last lane—and the smoke from his father’s
house!

The garden gate stood open, and there was some one