THE RETURN.
The breakers boomed up the beach, and in the blown spray Old Josselin pottered, bareheaded and barefoot. His eyesight had grown dimmer, but otherwise his bodily health had improved, for nowadays he ate food enough: and, as for purblindness, why there was no real need to keep watch on the sea. He did it from habit.
Ruth came on him much as Sir Oliver had come on him three years before; the roar of the breakers swallowing all sound of Madcap's hoofs until she was close at his shoulder. Now as then he turned about with a puzzled face, peered, and lifted his hand a little way as if to touch his forehead.
"Your ladyship—" he mumbled, noting only her fine clothes.
"Grandfather!"
She slipped down from saddle and kissed him, in sight of the grooms, who had reined up fifty yards away.
"What? Ruth, is it? . . . Here's news, now, for your mother, poor soul!"
"How is she? Take me to her at once, please."
"Eh! . . . Your mother keeps well enough; though doited, o' course— doited. Properly grown you be, too, I must say. . . . I didn't reckernise ye comin' on me like that. Inches ye've grown."
"And you—well, you look just the same as ever; only fuller and haler."