when the train pulled into Brampton station. There were but a few people
on the platform, but the first face she saw as she stepped from the car
was Lem Hallowell's. It was a very red face, as we know, and its owner
was standing in front of the Coniston stage, on runners now. He stared at
her for an instant, and no wonder, and then he ran forward with
outstretched hands.

"Cynthy--Cynthy Wetherell!" he cried. "Great Godfrey!"

He got so far, he seized her hands, and then he stopped, not knowing why.
There were many more ejaculations and welcomes and what not on the end of
his tongue. It was not that she had become a lady--a lady of a type he
had never before seen. He meant to say that, too, in his own way, but he
couldn't. And that transformation would have bothered Lem but little.
What was the change, then? Why was he in awe of her--he, Lem Hallowell,
who had never been in awe of any one? He shook his head, as though openly
confessing his inability to answer that question. He wanted to ask
others, but they would not come.

"Lem," she said, "I am so glad you are here."

"Climb right in, Cynthy. I'll get the trunk." There it lay, the little
rawhide one before him on the boards, and he picked it up in his bare
hands as though it had been a paper parcel. It was a peculiarity of the
stage driver that he never wore gloves, even in winter, so remarkable was
the circulation of his blood. After the trunk he deposited, apparently
with equal ease, various barrels and boxes, and then he jumped in beside
Cynthia, and they drove down familiar Brampton Street, as wide as a wide
river; past the meeting-house with the terraced steeple; past the
postoffice,--Cousin Ephraim's postoffice,--where Lem gave her a