he had infused enough penance into his four days upon
the road to last an ancient martyr a lifetime. Happily he had always
had a gift for concentration.

CHAPTER V

AT THE BLAST OF A HORN

The village was old and depressing. Kenny, a conspicuous guest at the
one hotel, awoke at noon to less imaginative interest in the wood, the
farmhouse and the river than he'd known for days. He had walked into
his picture. Now with perspective gone, he felt uncertain and vaguely
alarmed. Well, any quest that led to an inn like this, he felt, must
in itself be preposterous.

The innkeeper proved to be a mine of general information. He knew
nothing at all specific but evinced a candid willingness to overcome
this by acquiring facts from Kenny. Nobody he knew had run away from
an uncle. Why was Kenny seeking uncles? . . . Hum . . . Joel
Ashley's boy had run away but the uncle there had been a stepmother.
Was the runaway boy anybody's long lost heir? A pity! One read such
things in the papers. Years back there had been a scandal about a girl
who ran away to be an actress.

Kenny interrupted him long enough to order anything vehicular in the
village that would go. The innkeeper shouted to a boy outside with a
bucket and asked Kenny how far the "rig" would have to travel.

"I'm going," Kenny told him shortly, "to find a river. I'll keep going
until I find it."

The innkeeper after an interval of blank astonishment identified the
river at once. Kenny felt encouraged. Pressed to further detail,
however, he admitted a confusing plentitude of woods, hills and
farmhouses. Dangerously near the state of mind Garry called "running
in circles," Kenny fumed out to wait for the hotel phaeton and climbed
into it with a shudder of disgust. It had a mustard colored fringe.

But the phaeton creaked away into a wind and world of lilacs. Kenny
forgot the inn. He forgot the village. Another gust of warm, sweet
wind, another shower of lilac stars beside a well, another lane and he
would have to paint or go mad.

He neither painted nor lost his reason. He came instead to the river
and began again to fret. The road that but a moment before had made a
feint of stopping for good and all at a dark and hilly wall of cedars,
swept around a rocky curve and revealed the glint of the river. After
that by all the dictates of convenience it should have curved again and
continued its course to Kenny's destination, pleasantly para