"Your bow, Franky; make a bow to his honour—it may be he's a general."
General or not, it mattered but little to Frank, for, taking Hubert's hand, he said—
"Good bye, sir; I will try and be a good soldier."
Many little incidents, besides the one here recorded, befell Hubert as he journeyed homeward; and, though he was long upon the way, he might have been longer, had not little Frank's words—"How glad your mother will be to see you!"—so rung in his ears, that he felt compelled to go on; and the next afternoon to that on which he left the village inn, his heart began to beat as he thought he recognized some old places. Ah, yes! there was the old white toll-gate—he knew it was just one mile from his home; so here he alighted from the coach, and, leaving his luggage with the man who kept the gate, he walked gently on his way.
The day was closing, the labourers were returning from the field, and Hubert looked earnestly into the face of many he met, to see if he could recognize any of them. He did not in his heart quite wish to be known, but the incentive to find some friend of other years was powerful, and there was a slight hope for a familiar face; he, however, met no one that he knew, so he turned aside into a shady lane. Hubert knew the place well; often in his boyish days that lane had been his play-place—it was his favourite haunt; and there now he sat down upon the same old grey stone, round which so many memories of the past still hovered. From that large stone seat nearly every house in the village could be seen, and there in the valley it lay, in all the same calm beauty in which it had often risen before his view as he lay down beneath the sultry skies of India; there, too, was the cottage, with its white walls, over which the ivy still roamed at will—the same garden, not a path or tree seemed changed; there was the same white-painted gate, near which his family stood when he said the last good bye to them; everything, indeed, looked the same—there appeared no change, save that which his heart led him to expect; and his coat felt tighter than usual across his chest as he looked down from the hill upon his early home. He knew the way well—he saw the narrow pathway that would lead him out against the gate of his father's house, and yet he had not courage to go there.
Night drew on, and still Hubert sat upon the stone; many persons passed him, and more than one gazed earnestly at him, for his dress was not familiar to them; and he heard them whisper as they passed, "Who is he?" A few, more curious than the others, returned to take another look at him, but he was gone. "I am a coward," he had whispered to himself, and in the closing shadow of the night had trodden the narrow pathway, and reached the white gate of his home. The walk down the hill-side had wearied him, and he stayed a moment to rest upon his staff before he entered. He may have stayed longer than he intended, for an aged man, leaning also upon a staff, startled him by saying—
"You appear tired, sir; pray, have you far to go?"
"Not far; I hope to lodge in the village to-night. Does Mrs. Bird keep the White Swan now?"
"Mrs. Bird? Nay, she's in yonder churchyard; it's many a year since she died. You may have been here before, but it must be long since."
"Very long," said Hubert, with a sigh. "It is more than twenty years. Since then I have been fighting in the wars in India. Sir, I am a soldier."