He had never forgotten the anguish of his parting that night in spring, and he had looked forward to this return as an experience that would expiate it, and restore the lost balance of his life. But now as he thought of his life in Chicago, of the new scenes and associations, it came to him that that night after all had been final; the youth who had then gone forth had indeed gone forth never to return; another being was coming back in his stead. He had been successful in a way which at first flattered his pride, but a new sense of proportion had been growing in him that had lately made him mistrust newspaper work; he had for it a dislike almost as definite as that which used to displease him in Weston. He was growing tired of his life as a reporter; it had so many irregularities, so many hardships; it detached him from wholesome, every-day existence. He longed for some calling more definite, more permanent, a work in which he might do things, instead of record them in an ephemeral way. He had for a while been envious of Weston's progress in his literary efforts, and for a while he had emulated him, but he had not been long in recognizing that he lacked literary talent. Out of this dissatisfaction with himself he had lately gone in earnestly to complete his law studies, which all along he had pursued in a desultory fashion. He found some consolation in the hope that he might be admitted to the bar in the fall, though how or when he was to get into a practice was still as much of a problem as it had been in the old days in Macochee. He clung steadfastly, however, to the feeling that his newspaper work was but a makeshift; Weston and he had constantly supported each other in this view--it was their one hope. With thoughts somewhat like these Marley had been whiling away the hours of his long day's journey from Chicago to Macochee. He had read thoroughly, and with a professionally critical faculty, all the Chicago papers, and had long ago thrown them aside in a disorderly pile. Now he had the tired sense that his journey was nearing its end. At last he saw the old mill-pond, and his heart leaped in affection; then he got his umbrella and sticks, took off his traveling cap and put it in his bag. He stood up for the porter to brush him off, and when he had selected a half-dollar as a tip, he asked the porter to get his luggage together, and in a conscious affectation he could not forego, began to pull on his new gloves. They were nearing Macochee now; and suddenly the tears started to his eyes, as in a flash he saw his white-haired father standing on the platform, anxiously craning his neck for a first glimpse of the boy who was coming home.