changed Margie Ginter into Mrs. Bent.

Almost at once the piano, towering high above the horses which drew it, lumbered in from the other direction. All had turned out well.

CHAPTER III A WALTONVILLE COMMENCEMENT AND AN INQUISITIVE STRANGER

The railroad, a fifty-mile spur of the Baltimore & Northern, ran to Waltonville, but not beyond it. Miles away across the beautiful valley which lay spread before Mrs. Bent's little house, the main line was dimly discernible by the long trail of white smoke visible now and then against the blue hills, and, when the wind blew from the west, by the faint, distant roar of flying trains. The officials of the B. & N. had originally intended that it should pass through Waltonville, and the reason for their change of mind was an unusual one. The railroad engineer brought his family to Waltonville for the summer, and Waltonville received them as it did all unintroduced strangers. The engineer and his wife and children did not exist for Waltonville. Therefore, the railroad swerved far away to another village which was reported as larger, more important, and approached with less expense, and in the course of a few years Waltonville was made the terminus of a branch road leaving the main line at a junction fifty miles away.

Its loss was, however, not unmixed with gain; it remained as it was, unaspiring, peaceful, still, and beautiful. The students, the Commencement visitors, the agents for commercial firms, the few persons haled to court, traveled from the east and south on the B. & N. Those who came from other directions either made a wide détour by rail or approached, as they had approached from time immemorial, by horseback or carriage.

The last train on the eve of Commencement Day had been late. There was good reason for delay, traffic being heavy. Beside the usual travelers from village to village, there were at least fifty fathers and mothers and sisters of college boys, and there were four traveling men—in this fashion, at least, the conductor classified his passengers. Starting was long deferred; first the main-line train was behind time; then the engine of the Waltonville train moved slowly, as though it felt in every wheel and valve its heavy burden. The traveling men scolded; the staid fathers and mothers and pretty sisters sat quietly, as though this slow journey were a not unsuitable preparation for the solemnities of the morrow. The lateness of the train would be one more interesting detail of a delightful experience. In a few days the doubtful fame of the "nine o'clock" would have spread far beyond Waltonville.

There was one passenger whom the conductor was not able to classify, a tall man who wore a beard sharply pointed in a new fashion, young, but how young it was hard to say. He was handsomely dressed, and his bags were of a different pattern from the square leather cases of the agents and the unwieldy and bulging satchels carried by other travelers.

He rode in the smoking-car and smoked steadily. Once or twice he rose and walked up and down the aisle, complaining of the roughness of his progress. When a passenger took the seat in front of him, he leaned forward and made comment as though communion with a fellow being were suddenly imperative.

"This is a beastly road!"

The newcomer turned toward him, blinking, as though his mind had to exert itself to understand. He regarded the pointed beard and the handsome tie near him with some astonishment.

"What did you say?"

"I said this was a beastly road. I can apply still other adjectives."

"I guess it's good enough for those that have to travel on it," answered the mild voice. "I myself don't travel much. The testimony of our church is rather against traveling."

The handsome young man sat back with a muttered "Humph!" He was not in the least interested in churches or testimonies or those who thought of them seriously; his mind was occupied with certain literary problems which he considered important. At present he was engaged in a quest which he expected confidently would make him famous.

For fifteen minutes he stared out the window, until the darkening pane gave back only his own countenance. Then he turned in his seat and spoke to the man behind him. This man was very friendly; he explained at once that he was going to Waltonville to see his only son graduate and that mother and the girls were in the other car. The sending of his son to college had been a heavy expense, but the boy had justified all his hopes and would be able to pay back into the family treasury the amount which he had received.

"My name is Illington," said he in conclusion.

Instead of giving his name in return, the young man asked a question.

"Are you acquainted in Waltonville?"

"A little." Mr. Illington shifted his position so that he might talk more comfortably. He thought of offering to sit with the young man.

"Did you ever hear of any one named Basil Everman?"

The answer came with a kindly, frowning effort to remember.

"No and yes. The name sounds familiar."

"Do you know whether such a person lives in Waltonville now?"

"No, sir, I don't."

"Did you really ever know of such a person?"

The kindly man shook his head. "I can't say that I really did. But the name sounds—"

The young man turned away as if to say, "That will do." He lifted to the seat beside him the smaller of his bags and opened it. Upon the top of a pile of fine, smoothly folded clothes lay three old magazines, bound in pale covers which were now dull with age. In each one he opened to an anonymous article. "The Roses of Pæstum," an essay, was one; "Bitter Bread," a story, was another. The third was a long poem, "Storm." He opened them, evidently without any intention of exhibiting them to his neighbor, but with the purpose of furnishing some reassurance to himself. Having looked at them earnestly one after the other, he returned them to the bag, closed it, and set it on the floor. Once more he appealed to the man behind him.

"You're sure you don't know anything about any Evermans?"

"I'm afraid I don't, sir. But—"

The young man took a little notebook from his pocket and wrote in it a few words which his neighbor, curiously peering over his shoulder, could see plainly. "Approach to shrine. A prophet in his own country." The inscription made the observer feel a vague mortification.

"You might ask the conductor," he suggested.

"Thank you," was the solemn answer. Then, in slightly uneven script, the stranger added to his notes, "Ask the conductor," and placed an exclamation point after the words.

The conductor, approaching from the rear, was halted and the question put.

"Did you ever hear the name Basil Everman?"

"Never." The conductor also felt a kindly unwillingness to give a negative answer. "But I've only been on this run fifteen years, and my home's at the other end. But you can ask the brakeman; he lives in Waltonville."

The young man's notebook was still in his hand. He wrote in it, "Ask the brakeman about B. E., the incomparable," and followed it with three exclamation points.

The brakeman answered that he, too, was ignorant of Basil Everman. He perched on the arm of the inquirer's seat. He said that he lived in Waltonville because it was cheaper and his wife liked to keep chickens. He gave various other reasons why his wife liked the country. He preferred the city.

When the brakeman had gone, Mr. Illington began to prophesy the probable outcome of the next presidential