The moon, once again an orange feather in the sky, reminded
him of those early days that seemed now to be streaming in upon him from
every side.
Early next morning he caught the ten o'clock train to Clinton.
II
"Why," in the train he continued to say to himself, "have I let all
these years pass without returning? Why have I never returned?... Why
have I never returned?"
The slow, sleepy train (the London express never stops at Clinton)
jerked through the deep valleys, heavy with woods, golden brown at their
heart, the low hills carrying, on their horizons, white drifting clouds
that flung long grey shadows. Seymour felt suddenly as though he could
never return to London again exactly as he had returned to it before.
"That period of my life is over, quite over.... Some one is taking me
down here now--I know that I am being compelled to go. But I want to go.
I am happier than I have ever been in my life before."
Often, in Glebeshire, December days are warm and mellow like the early
days of September. It so was now; the country was wrapped in with happy
content, birds rose and hung, like telegraph wires, beyond the windows.
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