faced his father differently. The wild boy had come home--the
scapegoat of many Middleville escapades had returned--the
ne'er-do-well sought his father's house. He had come home to die. It
was there in Blair's white face--the dreadful truth. He wore a ribbon
on his breast and he leaned on a crutch. For the instant, as father
and son faced each other, there was something in Blair's poise, his
look of an eagle, that carried home a poignant sense of his greatness.
Lane thrilled with it and a lump constricted his throat. Then with
Blair's ringing "Dad!" and the father's deep and broken: "My son! My
son!" the two embraced.

In a stifling moment more it seemed, attention turned on Red Payson,
who stood nearest. Blair's folk were eager, kind, soft-spoken and warm
in their welcome.

Then it came Lane's turn, and what they said or did he scarcely knew,
until Margaret kissed him. "Oh, Dare! I'm _so_ glad to see you home."
Tears were standing in her clear blue eyes. "You're changed,
but--not--not so much as Blair."

Lane responded as best he could, and presently he found himself
standing at the curb, watching the car move away.

"Come out to-morrow," called back Blair.

The Maynard's car was carrying his comrades away. His first feeling
was one of gladness--the next of relief. He could be alone now--alone
to find out what had happened to him, and to this strange Middleville.
An old negro wearing a blue uniform accosted Lane, shook hands with
him, asked him if he had any baggage. "Yas sir, I sho knowed you,