Somehow, she--she's picked up a good many wrong impressions, and, Lord knows how, but she's mixed our names up and--and I've left the letter for you.

It's on my table." He turned and calling a final good-by over his shoulder, went clattering noisily down to the street and vanished from Crailey's sight.
Noon found Tom far out on the National Road, creaking along over the yellow dust in a light wagon, between bordering forests that smelt spicily of wet underbrush and May-apples; and, here and there, when they would emerge from the woods to cleared fields, liberally outlined by long snake-fences of black walnut, the steady, jog-trotting old horse lifted his head and looked interested in the world, but Tom never did either.

Habitually upright, walking or sitting, straight, keen, and alert, that day's sun saw him drearily hunched over, mile after mile, his forehead laced with lines of pain.

He stopped at every farm-house and cabin, and, where the young men worked in the fields, hailed them from the road, or hitched his horse to the fence and crossed the soft furrows to talk with them.

At such times he stood erect again, and spoke stirringly, finding eager listeners.