They turned and walked, side by side, on the top of the sea-wall toward the rectory. Their figures must have been outlined against the sky, for any watching from the river. The girl, tall and strong, walking with the ease that comes from health and a steadfast mind; the eager, restless boy running and jumping by her side. Barebone must have seen them as soon as they saw him. They were part of Farlingford, these two. He had a sudden feeling of having been away for years, with this difference—that he came back and found nothing changed. Whereas, in reality, he who returns after a long absence usually finds no one awaiting him.
He did as Sep had foretold—crossing to the far side of the river, and then gaining the mouth of the creek in one tack. Miriam and Sep had reached the rectory garden first, and now stood waiting for him. He came on in silence. Last time—on “The Last Hope”—he had come up the river singing.
Sep waved his hand, and, in response, Barebone nodded his head, with one eye peering ahead, for the breeze was fresh.
The old chain was still there, imperfectly fastened round a tottering post at the foot of the tide-washed steps. It clinked as he made fast the boat. Miriam had not heard the sound of it since that night, long ago, when Loo had gone down the steps in the dark and cast off.
“I was given a passage home in a French fishing-boat, and borrowed their dinghy to come ashore in,” said Loo, as he came up the steps. He knew that Farlingford would want some explanation, and that Sep would be proud to give it. An explanation is never the worse for a spice of truth.
“Miriam told me you were never coming home again,” answered Sep, still nourishing that grievance.
“Well, she was wrong, and here I am!” was Loo’s reply, with his old, ready laugh. “And here is Farlingford—unchanged, and no harm done.”
“Why should there be any harm done?” was Sep’s prompt question.
Barebone was shaking hands with Miriam.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “Because there always is harm done, I suppose.”