It was late afternoon when the train from the West deposited Hugh Finlay upon the Elgin platform, the close of one of those wide, wet, uncertain February days when the call of spring is on the wind though spring is weeks away.

The lights of the town flashed and glimmered down the streets under the bare swaying maple branches.

The early evening was full of soft bluster; the air was conscious with an appeal of nature, vague yet poignant.

The young man caught at the strange sympathy that seemed to be abroad for his spirit.

He walked to his house, courting it, troubled by it.