plied.

A counter commotion in the general tumult--the train.

A crowd waited outside the iron gate. A tall young man came through
with the hastening throng. He caught Witherspoon's wandering eye.
Strangers looking for each other are guided by a peculiar instinct,
but Witherspoon stood questioning that instinct. The mother could see
nothing with distinctness. The young man held up a gold chain.

It was soon over. People who were hastening toward a train turned to
look upon a flurry of emotion--a mother faint with joy; a strong man
stammering words of welcome; a girl seemingly thrilled with a new
prerogative; a stranger in a nest of affection.

"Come, let us get into the carriage," said Witherspoon. "Come,
Caroline, you have behaved nobly, and don't spoil it all now."

She gave her husband a quick though a meek glance and took Henry's
arm. When the others had seated themselves in the carriage,
Witherspoon stood for a moment on the curb-stone.

"Drive to the Colossus," he commanded. Mrs. Witherspoon put out her
hand with a pleading gesture. "You are not going there before you go
home, are you, dear?" she asked.

"I am compelled to go there, but I'll stay only a moment or two," he
answered. "I'll simply hop out for a minute and leave the rest of you
in the carriage. There's something on hand that needs my attention at
once. Drive to the Colossus," he said as he stepped into the carriage.
A moment later he remarked: "Henry, you are different from what I
expected. I thought you were light."

"He is just like my mother's people," Mrs. Witherspoon spoke up. "All
the Craigs were dark."

They drove on in a silence not wholly free from embarrassment. Through
the carriage windows Henry caught glimpses of a world of hurry. The
streets, dark and dangerous with traffic, stretched far away and
ended in a cloud of smoke. "It will take time to realize all this,"
the young men mused, and meeting the upturned eyes of Mrs.
Witherspoon, who had clasped her hands over his shoulder, he said:

"Mother, I hope you are not disappointed in me."

"You are just like the Craigs," she insisted. "They were dark. And
Uncle Louis was so dark that he might have been taken for an Italian,
and Uncle Harvey"--She hesitated and glanced at her husband.

"What were you going to say about your Uncle Harvey?" Henry asked.

"Nothing, only he was dark just like all the Craigs."

There is a grunt which man borrowed from the goat, or which, indeed,