the station. His eyes are bent down, and he seemingly takes no note of the glories of the May day, of the throbbings of the busy life about him. A procession of Grand Army men, headed by a brass band that makes music more mournful than the occasion seems to call for, passes by on the dusty highway.
"Homage for the dead; contumely for the living," he murmurs, bitterly.
The train for the north leaves at 4:30. Stanley spends the time between in making some small purchases at the village.
"At what hour do we arrive at Raymond?" he asks the conductor, as the train pulls out.
"Seven forty-five, if we are on time."
"Thank you," returns the young man. He draws his hat over his eyes, and turns his face to the window.
At 7:45 o'clock in the evening Sarah, the pretty house-*maid at the residence of Cyrus Felton, answers a sharp ring at the door bell. In the semi-darkness of the vine-*shaded porch she distinguishes only the outlines of a man who stands well back from the door. The gas has not yet been lighted in the hall.
"Is Mr. Felton at home?" inquires the visitor.
"The young or the old Mr. Felton?"
"The young or the old?" repeats the man to himself.
Sarah twists the door-knob impatiently. "Well?" she says.
"I beg your pardon; I was not aware that there were two Mr. Feltons. I believe the elder is the person I wish to see.
"He is not at home."
"He is in town?"
"Oh, yes. He went down-street about 7 o'clock, but we expect him back before long."
"Would he be likely to be at his office?"
Sarah does not know. Mr. Felton rarely goes to the office evenings. Still, he may be there.
"And the office is where?"
