r,
although her letter was two days old and she knew exactly what it
contained, the very sight of the written words was joy to her. Like all
Willits' notes it was short and to the point.

"Our friend has gone," she read. "We wanted to keep him for a month yet,
but the robins called too loudly. He left no word of his destination,
only a strange note saying that at last he was up the hill and over. May
he find happiness, dear lady, on the other side."

One thing I notice--this recovery of his is different from his former
recovery. If I were not afraid of lapsing into sentiment, I should say
that he has achieved a soul cure. The morbid spot which troubled him so
long is healed. A psychologist might explain it, but you and I must
accept the result and be thankful. It is as if his subconscious self
had removed a barrier and signalled 'Line clear--go ahead.' It is more
than I had ever dared to hope.

Your friend,
E.P. Willits.

"P.S.: Are you ready?"

Esther looked at the postscript and smiled--that slow smile which lifted
the corner of her lips so deliciously.

"May we wait for you, Teacher?"

"Not to-day, dears."

The children moved regretfully away. Presently the school yard was
deserted. The busy robins had finished quarrelling over their crumbs and
were holding a caucus around the red pump. In the quietness could be
heard the gurgle of the spring rivulets on the hill.

Was there another sound on the hill, too? A far off whistling mingled
with the gurgling water and twittering birds? Esther's hand tightened
upon the letter--she leaned forward, listening intently. How loud the
birds were! How confusing the sound of water! But now she caught the
whistling again--

"_From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles_"--

The familiar words formed themselves upon the girl's lips before the
message of the tune reached her brain and brought her, breathless, to
her feet. He was coming--so soon!

Panic seized her. Her hand flew to her heart--she would hide in the
school-room, anywhere! Then she remembered Willits' postscript, the
postscript which she had thought so needless. Her hand fell to her side.
The panic died. Next moment, head high and eyes smiling, she walked down
to the gate.

He was coming along the road under the budding elms--hatless, carrying a
knapsack. His tweeds were splashed with mud from the spring roads, his
face was thin, his hair was almost grey. Yet he came on like a conquer