AN ARMISTICE The dismal afternoon was drawing in when Winston, driving home from the railroad, came into sight of a lonely farm.

It lifted itself out of the prairie, a blur of huddled buildings on the crest of a long rise, but at first sight Winston scarcely noticed it.

He was gazing abstractedly down the sinuous smear of trail which unrolled itself like an endless ribbon across the great white desolation, and his brain was busy.

Four months had passed since he came to Silverdale, and they had left their mark on him.
At first there had been the constant fear of detection, and when that had lessened and he was accepted as Lance Courthorne, the latter's unfortunate record had met him at every turn.

It accounted for the suspicions of Colonel Barrington, the reserve of his niece, and the aloofness of some of his neighbors, while there had been times when Winston found Silverdale almost unendurable.