his white waistcoat gleaming in the
sunshine, his cane hooked over his arm, and himself looking benignly out
upon the world of Hempfield as it flows by, ready to discuss with any
one either the origin or the destiny of his neighbours.

At the corner above the post office Nort stopped and leaned against the
fence, and looked up the street and down the street. His spirits were
extremely low. He felt wholly miserable. He had not a notion in the
world what he was going to do, did not at that time even know the name
of the town he was in. It was indeed pure chance that had led him to
Hempfield. If he had had a few cents more in his pocket it might have
been Acton, or if a few cents less it might have been Roseburg. His only
instinct, blurred at the moment, I am sorry to say, had been to get as
far away from New York as possible--and Hempfield happened to be just
about the limit of his means.

[Illustration: _He pictured himself sitting in the quiet study of the
minister, looking sad, sad_]

He was already of two minds as to whether he should give it all up and
get back to New York as quickly as possible. He thought of dropping in
on the most important man in town, say the banker, or the Congregational
minister, and introducing himself in the role of contrite spendthrift or
of remorseful prodigal, as the case might be--trust Nort for knowing how
to do it--and by hook or crook raise enough money to take him back. He
pictured himself sitting in the quiet study of the minister, looking
sad, sad, and his mind lighted up with the wonderful things he could say
to prove that of all the sheep that had bleated and gone astray since
ever the world began, he was, without any doubt, the darkest of hue. He
sketched in the details with a sure touch. He could almost _see_ the
good old man's face, the look of commiseration gradually melting to one
of pitying helpfulness. It would require only a very few dollars to get
him back to New York.

He was on the point of carrying this interesting scheme into operation
when the scenes and incidents of his recent life in New York swept over
him, a mighty and inundating wave of black discouragement. Everything
had been wrong with him from the beginning, it seemed to him that
morning. He had not had the right parents, nor the right education, nor
enough will power, nor any true friends, nor the proper kind of
ambition.

When Satan first led Nort up on a high hill and offered him all the
kingdoms o