r know better," said the old man, and shouted in a thin,
high voice, "Jim, Jim, come along in this minute!"

Even then Beale didn't act a bit like the prodigal in the play. He just
unlatched the gate without looking at it--his hand had not forgotten the
way of it, for all it was so long since he had passed through that gate.
And he walked slowly and heavily up the path and said, "Hullo, dad!--how
goes it?"

And the old man looked at him with his eyes half shut and said, "Why, it
_is_ James--so it is," as if he had expected it to be some one quite
different.

And they shook hands, and then Beale said, "The garden's looking well."

And the old man owned that the garden 'ud do all right if it wasn't for
the snails.

That was all Dickie heard, for he thought it polite to go away. Of
course, they could not be really affectionate with a stranger about. So
he shouted from the gate something about "back presently," and went off
along the cart track towards Arden Castle and looked at it quite
closely. It was the most beautiful and interesting thing he had ever
seen. But he did not see the children.

When he went back the old man was cooking steak over the kitchen fire,
and Beale was at the sink straining summer cabbage in a colander, as
though he had lived there all his life and never anywhere else. He was
in his shirt-sleeves too, and his coat and hat hung behind the
back-door.

So then they had dinner, when the old man had set down the frying-pan
expressly to shake hands with Dickie, saying, "So this is the lad you
told me about. Yes, yes." It was a very nice dinner, with cold
gooseberry pastry as well as the steak and vegetables. The kitchen was
pleasant and cozy though rather dark, on account of the white climbing
rose that grew round the window. After dinner the men sat in the sun and
smoked, and Dickie occupied himself in teaching the spaniel and True
that neither of them was a dog who deserved to be growled at. Dickie had
just thrown back his head in a laugh at True's sulky face and stiffly
planted paws, when he felt the old man's dry, wrinkled hand under his
chin.

"Let's 'ave a look at you," he said, and peered closely at the child.
"Where'd you get that face, eh? What did you say your name was?"

"Harding's his name," said Beale. "Dickie Harding."

"Dickie _Arden_, I should a-said if you'd asked _me_," said the old man.
"Seems to me it's a reg'lar Arden face he's got. But my eyes ain't so
good as wot they