He posted the letter at Exeter, where he had some time to wait; and his mind moved still more from past to future.  Now that he was nearing home he began to think of his sister.  In two days she would be gone to Italy; he would not see her again for a long time, and a whole crowd of memories began to stretch out hands to him.  How she and he used to walk together in the walled garden, and on the sunk croquet ground; she telling him stories, her arm round his neck, because she was two years older, and taller than he in those days.  Their first talk each holidays, when he came back to her; the first tea—­with unlimited jam—­in the old mullion-windowed, flower-chintzed schoolroom, just himself and her and old Tingle (Miss Tring, the ancient governess, whose chaperonage would now be gone), and sometimes that kid Sylvia, when she chanced to be staying there with her mother.  Cicely had always understood him when he explained to her how inferior school was, because nobody took any interest in beasts or birds except to kill them; or in drawing, or making things, or anything decent.  They would go off together, rambling along the river, or up the park, where everything looked so jolly and wild—­the ragged oak-trees, and huge boulders, of whose presence old Godden, the coachman, had said:  “I can’t think but what these ha’ been washed here by the Flood, Mast’ Mark!” These and a thousand other memories beset his conscience now.  And as the train drew closer to their station, he eagerly made ready to jump out and greet her.  There was the honeysuckle full out along the paling of the platform over the waiting-room; wonderful, this year—­and there was she, standing alone on the platform.  No, it was not Cicely!  He got out with a blank sensation, as if those memories had played him false.  It was a girl, indeed, but she only looked about sixteen, and wore a sunbonnet that hid her hair and half her face.  She had on a blue frock, and some honeysuckle in her waist-belt.  She seemed to be smiling at him, and expecting him to smile at her; and so he did smile.  She came up to him then, and said: 

“I’m Sylvia.”

He answered:  “Oh! thanks awfully—­it was awfully good of you to come and meet me.”

“Cicely’s so busy.  It’s only the T-cart.  Have you got much luggage?”

She took up his hold-all, and he took it from her; she took his bag, and he took it from her; then they went out to the T-cart.  A small groom stood there, holding a silver-roan cob with a black mane and black swish tail.

She said:  “D’you mind if I drive, because I’m learning.”

And he answered:  “Oh, no! rather not.”

She got up; he noticed that her eyes looked quite excited.  Then his portmanteau came out and was deposited with the other things behind; and he got up beside her.

She said:  “Let go, Billy.”

The roan rushed past the little groom, whose top boots seemed to twinkle as he jumped up behind.  They whizzed round the corner from the station yard, and observing that her mouth was just a little open as though this had disconcerted her, he said: