H e was late. It didn’t matter; no one had been warned of his coming.

He punted down the last stretch of river. It had been Peterish, yet appropriate of him to choose this means of travel. He had arrived in Henley that morning. Had he gone by road, he could have been at The Winged Thrush for lunch. Now, full behind him, spying beneath the bent arm of a willow stooped the setting sun.

All day he had had the sense of things watching—memories, associations of the past, hopes and dreads which had lost their power to help or harm him. A new hope had become his companion; he gazed back, taking a farewell glance at the old affections.

As he stole down the streak of silver, through ash-gray autumn meadows, he had many thoughts. Cherry and the last time he had made that journey! The Faun Man and himself—the way in which men mistake their love! Withered reeds rustled with the motion of his passing. Fallen leaves, scarlet and brown and yellow, starred the water’s surface. Thrusting himself forward, he sang and hummed,

“I’ve been shipwrecked off Patagonia,

Home and Colonia,

Antipodonia-.”

He broke off, smiling whimsically. In a figurative sense his own autobiography—almost a fulfilled prophecy! A brave song! He liked it—it paid no heed to regret and recorded only the joy of pressing on.

Letting the punt drift, he stared back into the evening redness. It took courage to learn what things to remember and how to forget. For some weeks he had been trying to learn—this river-journey was the testing.

He rounded a bend. Ahead swans sailed placidly. Cattle stood knee-deep in water. In the stream, tethered to a landing, boats swung idly. On a close-cut lawn green tables were set out in the shadow of trees. Everything stood hushed and huddled in the gilded quiet.

He stepped out and strolled up through the trellised garden. Finding no one, he wandered round the inn to the back. From the stable-yard came the splashing that water makes when a brush is plunged into a bucket; then a droning sound, punctuated with the hissing of an ostler. Peter laughed inwardly.

“Whoa there, boy! You ain’t a patch on Cat’s Meat. Call yerself a ‘oss?—- Ah, would yer! Shish-shish-shish.

Oh Peter wuz ‘is nime,

So Peterish wuz ‘e,

‘E wept the sun’s h’eye back agen

Lest ‘e should never see.”

“Hulloa, Mr. Grace!”

The old man started and overset his bucket. “Ho, me tripe and h’onions, wot a fright yer did give me!—- Why, Master Peter, ‘oo’d ‘ave thought ter see you ‘ere. Thought yer’d forgotten h’us and wuz never comin’. H’I wuz just a-singin’ about yer. H’I h’orften does when h’I’m a-groomin’ of a ‘oss. Sorter soothes ‘im—maikes ‘im stand quiet.”

“Where’s Uncle Ocky?”

“Gone ter ‘Enley, white spats and h’all.”

“And Glory?”

Mr. Grace caught the tremble in the question and glanced up sharply. “And Glory!” He passed his hand in front of his mouth, “Miss Glory, she——. H’it’s lonely for ‘er, a bit of a gel, with two old codgers, like me and yer h’uncle. We does our best, but——. Ho, yes! Where is she? On the river, maybe, a-dreamin’. If yer’ll wite till h’I’ve finished with this ‘ere ‘oss——

“On the river!” Peter spoke quickly, to himself rather than to his friend. “Couldn’t have passed her. Must be lower down.”

He was turning away. Mr. Grace called after him, “‘Alf a mo’! Got somethink ter tell yer.” Peter halted. “H’it’s abart me darter, Grice; h’unexpected like she’s——” Peter waved his hand and passed out of ear-shot. Mr. Grace winked his eye at the horse. “Ho, beg parding!”

The sun had sunk behind the trees; the moon was rising. A little breeze shook the brittle leaves, laughing softly among them as they broke from their anchorage and swooped like bats through the dusk. On the edge of the lawn, overhanging the river, a white post stood ghostly. As he untied his punt, Peter looked up and read the legend, The Winged Thrush. On the sign was depicted a brown bird, fluttering its wings in a gilded cage. He pushed off into the stream, creeping sharp-eyed between misty banks through the twilight.

And Glory! Until the last few months his world had consisted of other people—people who had seemed so important—and Glory. But now—now that he could no longer follow the shining head of his little sister, he had halted. Looking back, all through the years from childhood he seemed to hear Glory, tiptoeing behind him. He had noticed her so rarely. He remembered the time when he had told her to remain seated on the garden wall, had forgotten her, had missed her and had recollected her only to find her still waiting for him, crying in the darkness. The terror seized him that to-night he might have remembered too late—might have lost her.

Something tapped against the side of his punt. He leant out—a floating oar! The stream was beginning to quicken; ahead rose the low booming of water rushing across a weir. He gazed about him. Down the shadowy river, darkly a-silver in moonlight, a black thing, like a log, bobbed in the current. As he came up with it, a figure huddled in the stern, called nervously to him, “Oh please, I’ve dropped my oars; do help me.” He maneuvered alongside. “Why, Peter! Dear Peter——!”

There was no time for talking. From bank to bank ahead of them the stream leapt palely, like the white mane of a plunging horse. Putting his arm about her, he lifted her rapidly into his punt. The empty boat hurried on into the darkness. Working his way upstream, he ran into safety in a bed of rushes.

“Glory, if I’d lost you!”

She shook her head laughing, “You couldn’t.”

He knelt beside her, clasping her hands. “But how——? What were you doing?”

“Dreaming. Just wondering. While I drifted, they slipped from the rowlocks.”

“Dreaming!” He stooped his face. “Of what—of whom?”

Her voice sank. “Must I tell?”

From his sky-window the man in the moon drew aside the curtain; he peered out knowingly.

Peter had her in his arms. His lips touched hers in the dusk. His eyes met hers—Kay’s eyes; even in the darkness he knew them.

“And you do care?—— You really want me?”

She drooped her head against his shoulder. “Oh, dearest, I always wanted——. But I’m a girl, Peter; I didn’t dare——.”

THE END