Lister returned to the railroad camp and stayed until the company sent a
man to fill his post. In the meantime, he wrote to some of his father's
relations, whom he had not seen, and their reply was kind. They stated
that while he was in England he must make their house his home. When his
successor arrived he started for Montreal, and one afternoon sat under a
tree in the square by the cathedral.

The afternoon was calm. A thunderstorm that wet the streets had gone,
and an enervating damp heat brooded over the city. After the fresh winds
that sweep the woods and plains, Lister felt the languid air made him
slack and dull. His steamer did not sail until daybreak, and since he
had gone up the mountain and seen the cathedral and Notre Dame, he did
not know what to do. The bench he occupied was in the shade, and he
smoked and looked about.

Cabs rolled up the street to the big hotel across the square, and behind
the trees the huge block of the C.P.R. station cut the sky. One heard
whistles, the rumble of heavy wheels, and the tolling of locomotive
bells. Pigeons flew down from the cathedral dome and searched the damp
gravel.

A group of foreign emigrants picnicked in the shade. Their clothes were
old and greasy; they carried big shapeless bundles and looked tired and
worn. Lister could not guess their nationality, but imagined they had
known poverty and oppression in Eastern Europe. It was obvious they had
recently disembarked from a crowded steerage and waited for an emigrant
train. They were going West, to the land of promise, and Lister wished
them luck. He and they were birds of passage and, with all old landmarks
left behind, rested for a few hours on their journey.