an, the mighty cycle of the seasons' evolution moved
on until the ripe yellow of harvest and of corn-field wrote "Autumn"
on the broad page of the prairies.

Of an evening in early September, Guy Landers turned out from the
uncut grass of the farm-yard into the yellow, beaten dust of the
country road. He walked slowly, for it was his last night on the farm,
and it would be long ere he passed that way again. This was the road
that led to the district school-house, and with him every inch had
been familiar from childhood. As a boy he had run barefoot in its
yellow dust, and paddled joyously in the soft mud of its summer
showers. The rows of tall cottonwoods that bordered it on either side
he had helped plant, watching them grow year by year, as he himself
had grown, until now the whispering of prairie night winds in their
loosely hung leaves spoke a language as familiar as his native
tongue.

He walked down the road for a half-mile, and turned in between still
other tall cottonwoods at another weather-stained, square farm-house,
scarcely distinguishable from his own.

"'Evening, Mr. Baker." He nodded to the round-shouldered man who sat
smoking on the doorstep.

The farmer moved to one side, making generous room beside him.

"'Evening, Guy," he echoed. "Won't y' set down?"

"Not to-night, Mr. Baker. I came over to see Faith." He hesitated,
then added as an afterthought: "I go away to-morrow."

The man on the steps smoked silently for a minute, the glow from the
corn-cob bowl emphasizing the gathering twilight. Slowly he took the
pipe from his mouth, and, standing up, seized the young man's hand in
the grip of a vise.

"I heerd y' were goin', Guy." He looked down through the steadiest of
mild blue eyes. "Good-bye, my boy." An uncertain catch came into his
voice, and he shook the hand harder than before. "We'll all miss ye."

He dropped his arm, and sat down on the step, impassively resuming his
pipe. Without raising his eyes, he nodded toward the back yard.

"Faith's back there with her posies," he said.

The young man hesitated, swallowing fiercely at the lump in his
throat.

"Good-bye, Mr. Baker," he faltered at length.

He walked slowly around the corner of the house, stopping a moment to
pat the friendly collie that wagged his tail, welcomingly, in the
path. A large mixed orchard-garden, surrounded by a row of sturdy soft
maples, opened up before him; and, coming up its side path, with the
most cautious