, after having seen all
things apparently set in order before him for progressive
accomplishment, he had fallen back once more into that state of
disbelief, of that hopeless and desperate awakening properly reserved
only for old age, when the individual realizes that what he does is of
itself of no consequence, and that what he is or is not stops no single
star an atom in its flight, no blade of grass an iota in its growing.

Paralysis of the energies too often follows upon such self-revelations;
and indeed it seemed to Franklin that he had suffered some deep and
deadly benumbing of his faculties. He could not welcome the new days.
His memory was set rather on the old days, so recent and in some way so
dear. He loved the forgotten thunder of the buffalo, but in his heart
there rose no exultation at the rumble of the wheels. Still
conscientious, he plodded, nor did he cease to aspire even in his own
restricted avocations. Because of his level common sense, which is the
main ingredient in the success-portion, he went easily into the first
councils of the community. Joylessly painstaking and exact, he still
prospered in what simple practice of the law there offered, acting as
counsel for the railway, defending a rare criminal case, collecting
accounts, carrying on title contests and "adverse" suits in the many
cases before the Register of the Land Office, and performing all the
simple humdrum of the busy country lawyer. He made more and more
money, since at that time one of his position and opportunities could
hardly avoid doing so. His place in the business world was assured.
He had no occasion for concern.

For most men this would have been prosperity sufficient; yet never did
Edward Franklin lie down with the long breath of the man content; and
ever in his dreams there came the vague beckoning of a hand still half
unseen. Once this disturbing summons to his life was merely
disquieting and unformulated, but gradually now it assumed a shape more
urgent and more definite. Haunting him with the sense of the
unfulfilled, the face of Mary Ellen was ever in the shadow; of Mary
Ellen, who had sent him away forever; of Mary Ellen, who was wasting
her life on a prairie ranch, with naught to inspire and none to witness
the flowering of her soul. That this rare plant should thus fail and
wither seemed to him a crime quite outside his own personal concern.
This unreal Mary Ellen, this daily phantom, which hung faces on ba