novel, he had read the story of Warwick the
Kingmaker, and upon leaving home had chosen it
for his own. He was a new man, but he had the
blood of an old race, and he would select for his
own one of its worthy names. Overhead loomed
the same smoky beams, decorated with what might
have been, from all appearances, the same bunches
of dried herbs, the same strings of onions and red
peppers. Over in the same corner stood the same
spinning-wheel, and through the open door of an
adjoining room he saw the old loom, where in
childhood he had more than once thrown the shuttle.
The kitchen was different from the stately
dining-room of the old colonial mansion where he
now lived; but it was homelike, and it was familiar.
The sight of it moved his heart, and he felt for
the moment a sort of a blind anger against the
fate which made it necessary that he should visit
the home of his childhood, if at all, like a thief
in the night. But he realized, after a moment,
that the thought was pure sentiment, and that one
who had gained so much ought not to complain if
he must give up a little. He who would climb
the heights of life must leave even the pleasantest
valleys behind.

"Rena," asked her mother, "how'd you like to
go an' pay yo'r brother John a visit? I guess I
might spare you for a little while."