Even now as he walked this road which led to his old home, dear to him beyond all else, his thoughts kept flying to the Nile and to the desert.
Suddenly he stopped.

He was at the cross-roads.

Here he had met Kate Heaver, here he had shamed his neighbours--and begun his work in life.
He stood for a moment, smiling, as he looked at the stone where he had sat those years ago, his hand feeling instinctively for his flute.
Presently he turned to the dusty road again.
Walking quickly away, he swung into the path of the wood which would bring him by a short cut to Hamley, past Soolsby's cottage.

Here was the old peace, the old joy of solitude among the healing trees.

Experience had broadened his life, had given him a vast theatre of work; but the smell of the woods, the touch of the turf, the whispering of the trees, the song of the birds, had the ancient entry to his heart.
At last he emerged on the hill where Soolsby lived.