Then he turned abruptly and left him, and Peter did not see him again.
He said his farewells to the town, tenderly and gravely--the cobbled
streets, the dear market-place, and the Tower, The Bending Mule (here there
were farewells to be said to Mr. and Mrs. Figgis and old Moses); the wooden
jetty, and the fishing-boats--then the beach and the caves and the sea....
Last of all, the Grey Hill. Peter climbed it on the last afternoon of all.
He was quite alone, and the world was very still; he could not hear the sea
at all. At last he was at the top and leant his back against the Giant's
Finger. Looking round there are the hills that guard Truro, there are the
woods where the rabbits are, there is the sea, and a wonderful view of
Treliss rising into a peak which is The Man at Arms--and the smoke of the
town mingled with the grey uncertain clouds, and the clouds mingled with
the sea, and the only certain and assured thing was the strength of the
Giant's Finger. That at least he could feel cold and hard against his
hands. He felt curiously solemn and grave, and even a little tearful--and
he stole down, through the dusk, softly as though his finger were on his
lips.
And then after this a multitude of hurrying sensations with their climax
in a very, very early morning, when one dressed with a candle, when one's
box was corded and one's attic looked strangely bare, when there was a
surprising amount to eat at breakfast, when one stole downstairs softly.
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