Here I was
near home, but did not tarry, and passed thence by stage to Leesburg, in
Virginia; and so finally came back into our little valley and the quiet
town of Wallingford. I had gone away the victim of misfortune; I
returned home with a broken word and an unfinished promise and a shaken
heart. That was my return.
I got me a horse at Wallingford barns, and rode out to Cowles' Farms. At
the gate I halted and looked in over the wide lawns. It seemed to me I
noted a change in them as in myself. The grass was unkempt, the flower
beds showed little attention. The very seats upon the distant gallery
seemed unfamiliar, as though arranged by some careless hand. I opened
the gate for myself, rode up to the old stoop and dismounted, for the
first time in my life there without a boy to take my horse. I walked
slowly up the steps to the great front door of the old house. No servant
came to meet me, grinning. I, grandson of the man who built that house,
my father's home and mine, lifted the brazen knocker of the door and
heard no footstep anticipate my knock. The place sounded empty.
Finally there came a shuffling footfall and the door was opened, but
there stood before me no one that I recognized.
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