After waiting a few days and receiving no further communication from the Banner office, and feeling too much humiliation to write to his city friends until time had dulled the blow, he concluded to go to Waterville and see if he could not make arrangements with the Town Company whereby he could return at once the money invested by his old associates in Waterville town lots. The more he thought over the refuting article in the Banner the more indignant he became. “There is not a manufacturer or other institution in the east rich enough,” said he to himself, “to stand such wholesale boycotting as this western country is constantly subjected to by the eastern press. It is not conservatism; it is downright injustice. I have not been long in the west, it is true, but my respect for it and its people is growing. Even Chicago, with all her greatness, energy and achievements, is belittled by the boycotting press of the east! “By birth I am a Gothamite, and by education I am an eastern man, but my patriotism for America and all that is American has never prevented me from turning up my trousers when there is a heavy fog in London?” CHAPTER XVIII.—VANCE RETURNS TO WATERVILLE. 9156 T [148] was on an October morning that Vance started for Waterville. A light frost the night before had made the air sharp and crisp. The frost disappeared, however, before the genial warmth of the rising sun, while the russet leaves grew brownerer and as the wind stirred them, sang brokenly of old age. October is the scenic month in the mountains. You seem to stand in Nature’s picture gallery. The box-alder leaves are as changeable in color as a blushing maiden. From the low foothills on up the sides of the mountains to the timber line, the elms, the box-alders, and poplars grow in profusion. The leaves vary in color from the deepest green to the brightest scarlet, the most golden yellow, or the somberest brown. The colors are intermingled in this gorgeous panoramic scene with a charm and beauty that baffles the most skilled artist’s touch to reproduce on canvas. Vance was seated beside Steve Gibbons on the top of the stage coach, as they whirled along in meditative silence. The evening before Louise had sung for him. It was music fit for the gods—so rich, so deep, so plaintively low, so fascinating. He could see her even now, standing on the wide old porch as she bade him good-bye. [149] The mild October breeze that stirred the ringlets of her golden hair seemed laden with worshipers of hope for Vance, the lover, and he interpreted her every word and smile as a token reciprocal of his own deep love. Presently Vance was brought back from his day dreams to the present by Steve Gibbons remarking: “Things ain’t so powerful brisk down at Waterville jes’ now.” “Why, how is that?’ asked Vance.