evening at a little station in northern England. Brown moors stretched
about it, for the heather had not bloomed yet, rolling back in long
slopes to the high ridge which cut against leaden thunder-clouds in the
eastern sky. To the westward, they fell away; and across a wide, green
valley smooth-backed heights gave place in turn to splintered crags and
ragged pinnacles etched in gray and purple on a vivid saffron glow. The
road outside the station gleamed with water, and a few big drops of
rain came splashing down, but there was a bracing freshness in the
mountain air.

The train went on, and Vane stood still, looking about him with a
poignant recollection of how he had last waited on that platform, sick at
heart, but gathering his youthful courage for the effort that he must
make. It all came back to him--the dejection, the sense of
loneliness--for he was then going out to the Western Dominion in which he
had not a friend. Now he was returning, moderately prosperous and
successful; but once again the feeling of loneliness was with him--most
of those whom he had left behind had made a longer journey than he had
done. Then he noticed an elderly man, in rather shabby livery,
approaching, and he held out his hand with a smile of pleasure.

"You haven't changed a bit, Jim!" he exclaimed. "Have you got the young
gray in the new cart outside?"

"T' owd gray was shot twelve months since," the man replied. "Broke his
leg comin' down Hartop Bank. New car was sold off, done, two or t'ree
years ago."

"That's bad news. Anyway, you're the same."