k home in a very different frame of mind.

The country looked very different to when we saw it last, but it was a
mild balmy winter, with primroses and cuckoo-pints pushing in the
valleys, and here and there a celandine pretending that spring had come.

The roads were dirty, but we thought little about them, for we knew that
the sea-shore was always the same, and, if anything, more interesting in
winter than in summer.

I was all eagerness to get home and see what had been done in the Gap,
for my father in his rare letters had said very little about it.

Bigley was equally eager too. Six months had made a good deal of
difference in him, for, young as he was, he seemed to be more manly and
firm-looking, though to talk to he was just as boyish as ever, and never
happier than when he was playing at some game.

He, too, was ready enough to talk about the Gap, and wonder what had
been done.

"I hope your father has made friends with mine," he kept on saying as we
drew nearer home. "It will be so awkward if they are out when you and I
want to be in. Because we do, don't we?"

"Why, of course," I cried. "And it will be so awkward, won't it?"

"No," I said stoutly, "it won't make any difference; you and I are not
going to fall out, so why should we worry about it? I say, look at Bob
Chowne!"

Bigley turned, and there he was once more seated upon his box, right up
on the big knot of the cord, just as if he liked to make himself
uncomfortable. Then his elbows were on his knees and his chin was in
his hands, as he stared straight before him from out of the tilt of the
big cart.

"Why, what's the matter, Bob?" I said.

"Nothing."

"Why, there must be something or you wouldn't look like that. What is
it?"

"Oh, I don't know; only that we're going home."

"Well, aren't you glad?"

"Glad? No, not I. What is there to be glad about? I haven't forgotten
last holidays."

"What do you mean?" said Bigley and I in a breath.

"Oh, wasn't I always getting in rows, because you two fellows took me
out and got me in trouble. I haven't forgotten about that old suit of
clothes."

"But I say, Bob," I cried, "didn't you do your part of getting into
trouble?"

"Oh, I don't know. Don't bother, I'm sick of it. I'm tired of being a
boy. I wish I was a man."

"Nay, don't wish that," cried the old carrier, who had been hearing
everything, though he had not spoken before. "Man, indeed! Why, aren't
you all boys wi