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 It was the first of July, 1914—Dominion Day—and all along the road were signs of celebration. Houses were decorated with flags, families from outlying districts thronged the streets of the villages in festive attire. PaudPaul [sic] had an indulgent smile for the cow-hide boots emerging beneath muslin frocks, up in front and down at the back after the manner of soil-tilling women the world over. Kind-faced, shapeless mothers carried picnic baskets on their arms and solid unbrellasumbrellas [sic], and fat boys in duck knickers, with hat elastics under their chins, blew gaudy horns, sucking peppermint sticks between fanfares.

Paul thought of the days when he awoke at dawn, excited at the prospect of marching in the First of July parade. He saw no sign of the "brownies" and burnt-cork "minstrels" who had been a conspicuous feature of former parades, and a lamentable modern touch was added by the prevalence of Ford motor-cars, of which the world had been innocent in his childhood.

A poignant sense of his foreignness was borne in on him. When he had to consult the conductor, whom he unthinkingly addressed as "Guard," he felt as though they spoke different languages. Certainly the conductor scrutinized him as something out of the ordinary in passengers.

To cast off his depression Paul tried to think himself back into his childish state of mind, only to be faced with the truth that he had been a stranger even as a boy. He was suffused by the familiar sense of being in the wrong, of being unlike his, of being in the same camp as Aunt Verona, who was condemned as anti-social.

His ! He wondered how many were still in Hale's Turning, and how many would remember him, even by name.

When the train drew up, he timidly scanned the figures