William Bishop's house was a modern brick structure, standing on a well-clipped lawn which held a gothic summer-house and two or three marble statues. It was in the best portion of the avenue. Reaching it, the planter left the car and approached the iron gate which opened on to the granite steps leading up the terrace. It was now quite dark and many pedestrians were hurrying homeward along the sidewalks. Obeying a sudden impulse, the old man irresolutely passed by the gate and walked farther up the street. He wanted to gain time, to think whether it would be best for him in his present state of mind to meet those fashionable relatives--above all, his matter-of-fact, progressive brother. “Somehow I don't feel one bit like it,” he mused. “I couldn't tell William. He'd think I wanted to borrow money an' ud git skeerd right off. He always was afeerd I'd mismanage. An' then I'd hate to sp'ile Adele's visit, an' she could tell thar was some'n wrong by me bein' heer in sech a flurry. I reckon I _do_ show it. How could a body he'p it? Oh, my Lord, have mercy! It's all gone, all--all me'n Betsy has saved.” He turned at the corner of his brother's property and slowly retraced his halting steps to the gate, but he did not pause, continuing his way back towards the station. A glance at the house showed that all the lower rooms were lighted, as well as the big prismatic lamp that hung over the front door. Bishop saw forms in light summer clothing on the wide veranda. “I 'll bet that tallest one is Sis,” he said, pathetically. “I jest wish I could see 'er a little while. Maybe it ud stop this awful hurtin' a little jest to look at 'er an' heer 'er laugh like she always did at home. She'd be brave; she wouldn't cry an' take on; but it would hurt 'er away down in 'er heart, especially when she's mixin' with sech high-flyers an' money-spenders. Lord, what 'll I do fer cash to send 'er next month? I'm the land-porest man in my county.” As he went along he passed several fashionable hotels, from which orchestral music came. Through the plate-glass windows he saw men and women, amid palms and flowers, dining in evening dress and sparkling jewels. Reaching the station, he inquired about a train to Darley, and was told that one left at midnight. He decided to take it, and in the mean time he would have nothing to occupy him. He was not hungry; the travel and worry had killed his appetite; but he went into a little café across the street from the depot and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He drank the coffee at a gulp, but the food seemed to stick in his throat. After this he went into the waiting-room, which was thronged with tired women holding babies in their arms, and roughly clad emigrants with packs and oil-cloth bags. He sat in one of the iron-armed seats without moving till he heard his train announced, and then he went into the smoking-car and sat down in a corner.