THE HILL OF DREAMS
was invested with fire; flames from heaven were smitten about its walls, and above there was a dark floating cloud, like a fume of smoke, and every haggard writhing tree showed as black as midnight against the blast of the furnace.
When he got home he heard his mother's voice calling: 'Here's Lucian at last. Mary, Master Lucian has come, you can get the tea ready.' He told a long tale of his adventures, and felt somewhat mortified when his father seemed perfectly acquainted with the whole course of the lane, and knew the names of the wild woods through which he had passed in awe.
'You must have gone by the Darren, I suppose'—that was all he said. 'Yes, I noticed the sunset; we shall have some stormy weather. I don't expect to see many in church tomorrow.'
There was buttered toast for tea 'because it was holidays.' The red curtains were drawn, and a bright fire was burning, and there was the old familiar furniture, a little shabby, but charming from association. It was much pleasanter than the cold and squalid schoolroom; and much better to be reading Chambers's Journal than learning Euclid; and better to talk to his father and
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