d friend?

The dinner, as Camille remarked once or twice, was a strictly family
affair. Mrs. Phelps, who happened in on an errand just as they were
gathering, so reported it at her own tea-table, soon afterwards, with
glowing comments on the "handsome young officer" who had just come home.

Her nephew listened without replying, and did not finish his second
delicate muffin, though she had baked them herself with the expectation
that he would dispose of several, as was his custom. She noticed, but
set it down to some unknown bother over business, and wondered whether
there had been trouble with any of the furnaces, or if some order had
been returned on his hands. She knew too much to ask, though. It was
never easy to question George, even in his most relaxed moods. Joyce was
about the only one who had ever attempted it successfully.

The meal over, he wandered outside, and stood with his hands in his
pockets, looking aimlessly around him, with a feeling of wonder mingled
with his sense of desolation. It had never occurred to him, before, to
find time hanging heavily on his hands, to wonder what he should do
next. Work had always driven him, and even after his special hours were
over, there were countless duties for the manager. Then, it was always
such a delight to find a few moments for reading, where he had so little
leisure that a lull was seized with avidity.

But to-night the very thought of bills, or books, disgusted him! He
turned sharply away from the factory, and, avoiding the knoll at the
other end of town, struck out for the open country. It happened to be
the road Dan so often traveled, though George did not know that. He
found its scenes entirely new, had he noticed them. He was not a man who
found much time for country strolls.

It was not yet dark, and the pink glow of a fine sunset still lingered
in the air, which was soft and still. The first frosts had tinged the
outermost leaves of the maples, and the sumach was brilliant in the
hedges, yet the bulk of the foliage was still green, for in that
locality winter held off, sometimes, until December ushered him in. The
green of the trees, vivified by the late rains, thrown out against this
rosy sky, was as satisfying as the odor of flowering currant in the
early spring. It made one love the world. The dust was beaten down into
smooth swirls in the road, and the footpath, worn in the sod alongside,
felt hard as cement under his leather soles. The silence