He halted again, and remained for a time, staring into the fire.

“Oh! the wretchedness of that return!” he murmured.

“Well?” I said after a minute or so.

“Poor little wretch I was—­brought back to this grey world again!  As I realised the fulness of what had happened to me, I gave way to quite ungovernable grief.  And the shame and humiliation of that public weeping and my disgraceful homecoming remain with me still.  I see again the benevolent-looking old gentleman in gold spectacles who stopped and spoke to me—­prodding me first with his umbrella.  ‘Poor little chap,’ said he; ’and are you lost then?’—­and me a London boy of five and more!  And he must needs bring in a kindly young policeman and make a crowd of me, and so march me home.  Sobbing, conspicuous and frightened, I came from the enchanted garden to the steps of my father’s house.

“That is as well as I can remember my vision of that garden—­the garden that haunts me still.  Of course, I can convey nothing of that indescribable quality of translucent unreality, that difference from the common things of experience that hung about it all; but that—­that is what happened.  If it was a dream, I am sure it was a day-time and altogether extraordinary dream . . . . . .  H’m!—­naturally there followed a terrible questioning, by my aunt, my father, the nurse, the governess--everyone . . . . . .

“I tried to tell them, and my father gave me my first thrashing for telling lies.  When afterwards I tried to tell my aunt, she punished me again for my wicked persistence.  Then, as I said, everyone was forbidden to listen to me, to hear a word about it.  Even my fairy tale books were taken away from me for a time—­because I was ‘too imaginative.’  Eh?  Yes, they did that!  My father belonged to the old school . . . . .  And my story was driven back upon myself.  I whispered it to my pillow—­my pillow that was often damp and salt to my whispering lips with childish tears.  And I added always to my official and less fervent prayers this one heartfelt request:  ’Please God I may dream of the garden.  Oh! take me back to my garden!  Take me back to my garden!’

“I dreamt often of the garden.   I may have added to it, I may
have changed it; I do not know . . . . .   All this you understand
is an attempt to reconstruct from fragmentary memories a very early
experience.   Between that and the other consecutive memories of my
boyhood there is a gulf.   A time came when it seemed impossible I
should ever speak of that wonder glimpse again.”

I asked an obvious question.

“No,” he said.  “I don’t remember that I ever attempted to find my way back to the garden in those early years.  This seems odd to me now, but I think that very probably a closer watch was kept on my movements after this misadventure to prevent my going astray.  No, it wasn’t until you knew me that I tried for the garden again.  And I believe there was a period—­incredible as it seems now—­when I forgot the garden altogether—­when I was about eight or nine it may have been.  Do you remember me as a kid at Saint Athelstan’s?”