e instant shattering
of a precious delusion, held anguish. But now, as the train whirled away
the silent, thin, little man, he began to expand again. John saw him
scaling heights, cutting a path through impenetrable forests, wading
across dismal swamps, an ever-moving figure, seeking the hitherto
unknowable and irreclaimable, introducing order where chaos reigned
supreme, a world-famous pioneer.

How good to think that John Verney was _his_ uncle, blood of his blood,
his, his, his--for all time!

And, long ago, John, senior, had come to Harrow; had felt what John,
junior, felt to the core--the dull, grinding wrench of separation, the
sense, not yet to be analysed by a boy, of standing alone upon the edge
of a river, indeed, into which he must plunge headlong in a few minutes.
Well, Uncle John had taken his "header" with a stout heart--who dared to
doubt that? Surely he had not waited, shivering and hesitating, at the
jumping-off place.

The train was now out of sight. John slipped the uncle's tip into his
purse, and walked out of the station and on to the road beyond, the road
which led to the top of the Hill.

_The Hill._

Presently, the boy reached some iron palings and a wicket-gate. His
uncle had pointed out this gate and the steep path beyond which led to
the top of the Hill, to the churchyard, to the Peachey tomb on which
Byron dreamed,[1] to the High Street--and to the Manor. It was pleasant
to remember that he was going to board at the Manor, with its
traditions, its triumphs, its record. In his uncle's day the Manor
ranked first among the boarding-houses. Not a doubt disturbed John's
conviction that it ranked first still.

The boy stared upwards with a keen gaze. Had the mother seen her son at
that moment, she might have discerned a subtle likeness between uncle
and nephew, not the likeness of the flesh, but of the spirit.

September rains, followed by a day of warm sunshine, had lured from the
earth a soft haze which obscured the big fields at the foot of the Hill.
John could make out fences, poplars, elms, Scotch firs, and spectral
houses. But, above, everything was clear. The school-buildings, such as
he could see, stood out boldly against a cloudless sky, and above these
soared the spire of Harrow Church, pointing an inexorable finger
upwards.

Afterwards this spot became dear to John Verney, because here, where
mists were chill and blinding, he had been impelled to leave the broad
high-road and