the flesh of his flesh; he bent down and crumpled a clod
between his fingers for sheer joy of the feel of it.

When he straightened himself it was to see the figure of an old man he
did not know coming through the gate that led from the lane into the
farmyard. There was only one field intervening, and Ishmael's eyes were
still very good at a distance; he could see the old man was no one from
those parts. There was something outlandish, too, about the soft slouch
hat and the cut of the clothes, of a slaty grey that showed up clearly
amidst the earthy and green colours all around. The old man stood
fumbling with the gate in his hand, then, when it swung back, he stayed
staring round him as though he were looking for something he did not
find. He made two or three little steps forward, then paused. Ishmael,
having bidden the man see to the horses, went into the next field that
gave into the yard.

The stranger looked round, saw him, hesitated again, then went forward,
more surely this time, as though he had either remembered something or
suddenly made up his mind. He passed through the archway into the court.
Ishmael stood, his hand on the gate, staring after him, his heart
thumping painfully, why, he could not or would not admit to himself.
Then he, too, went on and into the court. He crossed it, went through
the passage door that stood open, and on into the kitchen which lay on
the left. There was no one there. He passed into the sitting-room on the
right of the passage, and there he saw the old man standing by the
fireplace and looking round him with an odd, bewildered air. He looked
up as Ishmael came in, and their eyes met. Afterwards Ishmael realised
that he had always known it was Archelaus from the moment he had seen
him stand and look round him at the gate.

Archelaus looked a very old man. He was old even in actual years, and
almost ageless if some indefinable look on his seamed face registered
more truly the period sustained by the ravaged spirit. He stood staring
at Ishmael, then spoke in a husky, uncertain voice that went suddenly
from gruffness to a high querulousness.

"Who be you?" he asked. "I be Archelaus Beggoe, and I'm come home to
where I was born and reared.... I'm come home, I tell 'ee."

The two old men stood looking at each other.

"Don't you remember me?" asked Ishmael gently. "I'm Ishmael, your
brother; you know...." He went forward and took the other's unresisting
hand. "Welcome home, Arch