In less than four years after the events recorded in the last chapter a young man of fascinating appearance stepped off from the train at the Killsbury station. His name was Alfonso Bombs. He had just returned from his trip abroad. He had seen the Russo-Japanese army fighting like fiends--setting hellish traps for each other and blowing whole regiments into eternity. Vassili Verestchagin had lost his life in the terrible explosion of the Petropavlovsk and thousands of men had died awful deaths through the same satanic agencies that had snatched this noble truth-painter from his needed work. The commercial world was being made hideous with the manufacture and transportation of monstrous battleships and explosives. Mr. Schwarmer had been blown to atoms by a dynamite explosion on a railroad train and his widow had married a military man and was deeply interested in "_The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals_." She contemplated giving a fine building for its use and enlarging its scope by adding an infirmary for disabled war-horses; but Mr. Bombs was not thinking of these things nor of the immense army of youth that was being prepared for the annual slaughter although it was Independence Day and the nation's flag was flying from every train. He refused the proffered carriage and walked leisurely through the town, stopping here and there and looking around in pleased surprise. It seemed to him that the whole atmosphere of the place had changed. The gardens were full of flowers, the lawns were green and velvety, the crooked old fences had disappeared, the sidewalks were in a perfect condition, the roads were gravelled, and the ugly hollows filled up. When he got to Library Street, he stopped and surveyed it critically. The improvement was still more apparent there. The Adelaide Library was handsomely winged. He wondered how it would be with Adelaide herself. He felt that she would have wings spiritual if not visible--quite after his heart's desire. He reasoned that if all these improvements had been made through her influence, she must be a very rare woman and well beloved--so well that she would not need any other love perhaps. Then the little viper of jealousy slid into his heart; but he cast it out with the lash of self-assurance. He would not think that he could not win her if he should approve of her and really wish to have her for his very own. Up to this point he had not met any one he knew and he was glad he had not. He went on noting changes until he found himself at the point, where the street branched off for the "Round About Way" to Schwarmer Hill. He avoided it instinctively. He took the Straight Road; but his reverie as he ascended the hill had a tragic element in it that robbed it of its charm. After that, the reign of disappointment set in. Schwarmer mansion had not improved in the least--rather the reverse. If he had expressed his thought he would have said: