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 iron wheels of baggage trucks; the station was the same dull red, unpainted since the day of its erection; the same telegraph instrument clicked in the bay window; the same air of lazy casualness persisted. At the end of the platform Lafe Fitch lay back on the high seat of his yellow omnibus, indifferent whether passengers came to be taken to the hotel or no. There was the same odor of oil and of cinders…. The same muddy road led past billboards and straggling houses toward the town, whose standpipe and church towers reached upward toward the same sky. It was Rainbow, the same Rainbow, unchanged by any miracle, and Angus hated it with a bitter hatred.

It gave him temporary comfort that he was not recognized, but recognition must come. It was a sort of reprieve which he took advantage of to hasten down the road, to avoid Main Street, and, by unfrequented ways, to reach Craig Browning’s door; it opened and he stood face to face with Mary Browning. She held the door ajar, not recognizing him, waiting for him to state his errand.

“Mr. Wilkins…” he said. “Uncle Dave….”

She stared at him amazed, searching his face, startled as recognition dawned in her eyes. He saw her face light with welcome, with astonished