Life is now so variable, travel so easy, there are no continuing cities and no lasting interests, and we ask ourselves involuntarily, "What will the sequence be ?" When I left Yorkshire, I was too young and too ignorant of the ever-changing film of daily existence to think or to care much about sequences; and the Hattons were a family of the soil; they appeared to be as much a part of it as the mountains and elms, the blue bells and the heather.

I never expected to see them again and the absence of this expectation made me neither sorry nor glad.
One day, however, a quarter of a century after the apparent close of my story, I was in St.Andrews, the sacred, solemn-looking old city that is the essence of all the antiquity of Scotland.

But it was neither its academic air nor its ecclesiastical forlornness, its famous links nor venerable ruins of cloister and cathedral that attracted me at that time.

It was the promise of a sermon by Dean Stanley which detained me on my southward journey.

I had heard Dean Stanley once, and naturally I could not but wish to hear him again.
He was to preach in the beautiful little chapel of St.Salvator's College and I went with the crowd that followed the University faculty there.