There was one slender branch where green
buds were starting, and getting ready to flower in the new year.

The afternoon wore late, and still the gray-haired man lingered. He
might have laughed at some one else who gave himself up to sad
thoughts, and found fault with himself, with no defendant to plead his
cause at the bar of conscience. It was an altogether lonely hour. He
had dreamed all his life, in a sentimental, self-satisfied fashion, of
this return to Winby. It had always appeared to be a grand affair, but
so far he was himself the only interested spectator at his poor
occasion. There was even a dismal consciousness that he had been
undignified, perhaps even a little consequential and silly, in the old
school-house. The picture of himself on the war-path, in Johnny
Spencer's arithmetic, was the only tribute that this longed-for day
had held, but he laughed aloud delightedly at the remembrance and
really liked that solemn little boy who sat at his own old desk. There
was another older lad, who sat at the back of the room, who reminded
Mr. Laneway of himself in his eager youth. There was a spark of light
in that fellow's eyes. Once or twice in the earlier afternoon, as he
drove along, he had asked people in the road if there were a Laneway
family in that neighborhood, but everybody had said no in indifferent
fashion. Somehow he had been expecting that every one would know him
and greet him, and give him credit for what he had tried to do, but
old Winby had her own affairs to look after, and did very well without
any of his help.

Mr. Laneway acknowledged to himself at this point that he was weak and
unmanly. There must be some old friends who would remember him, and
give him as hearty a welcome as the greeting he had brought for them.
So he rose and went his way westward toward the sunset. The air was
growing damp and cold, and it was time to make sure of shelter. This
was hardly like the visit he had meant to pay to his birthplace. He
wished with all his heart that he had never come back. But he walked
briskly away, intent upon wider thoughts as the fresh evening breeze
quickened his steps. He did not consider where he was going, but was
for a time the busy man of affairs, stimulated by the unconscious
influence of his surroundings. The slender gray birches and pitch
pines of that neglected pasture had never before seen a hat and coat
exactly in the fashion. They may have been abashed by the presence of
a Unite