present comrade; for he is not to be thrown over during life. Before
now, men have become so weary of him, so bored by him, that they have
attempted to escape, by suicide; but it is a question if death itself
altogether rids us of him.

In no minute of the twenty-four hours since Lynde left Rivermouth had he
felt the want of other companionship. Mary, with her peculiarities, the
roadside sights and sounds, the chubby children with shining morning
face, on the way to school, the woodland solitudes, the farmers at work
in the fields, the blue jays and the robins in the orchards, the blonde
and brown girls at the cottage doors, his own buoyant, unreproachful
thoughts--what need had he of company? If anything could have added to
his enjoyment it would have been the possibility of being waylaid by
bandits, or set upon in some desolate pass by wild animals. But, alas,
the nearest approximation to a bandit that fell in his way was some
shabby, spiritless tramp who passed by on the further side without
lifting an eyelid; and as for savage animals, he saw nothing more savage
than a monkish chipmunk here and there, who disappeared into his
stonewall convent the instant he laid eyes on Lynde.

Riding along those lonely New England roads, he was more secure than if
he had been lounging in the thronged avenues of a great city. Certainly
he had dropped on an age and into a region sterile of adventure. He felt
this, but not so sensitively as to let it detract from the serene
pleasure he found in it all. From the happy glow of his mind every
outward object took a rosy light; even a rustic funeral, which he came
upon at a cross-road that fore-noon, softened itself into something not
unpicturesque.

For three days after quitting K---Lynde pushed steadily forward. The