On the way Big Malcolm regaled the two exiles with tales of the great events that had transpired since their absence. The most important one related to Store Thompson's latest achievement in the philological field. This time he had routed completely young Mike Murphy. Mike had never received anything through the post office in his life, but never a day passed but he poked his head in at the little wicket and demanded in a loud voice, "Anythin' for Murphy the day?" Store Thompson had endured the youth's uncouthness with his usual serenity, but one day Mike asked twice at the wicket. That was once too often, and Store Thompson fell back on his reserve forces. "Murphy?" he queried. "Young man, ye're jist ambeeguous like, aye, ye're jist ambeeguous." Mike had never inquired for letters since. He retired in a rage, under the impression that Store Thompson had called him some insulting name, but, like many another brave man, overawed by the mystery of the unknown. Ever since, Store Thompson had been free from his tormentor and the young man was known between the Oa and the Flats as "Ambiguous Mike." Big Malcolm chuckled audibly and jerked the lines in delight over the remembrance of his old friend's victory. The way seemed very short to Scotty, there was so much of interest to see. Soon they left the Highlands and began to descend into the Glen, and he found his eyes growing misty again as they dwelt on the winding white road, the silver curves of the river between the faint green of the hills, and the cosy homesteads nestled in the budding orchards. The place was so little changed in the two years he could almost believe he had never left it. He noticed only one radical difference. Pete Nash's establishment had disappeared. The tavern had not been able to withstand the united progress of commerce and righteousness; Mr. Cameron's advent had heralded its downfall, and the toot of the railway train through Oro had sounded its death knell. Big Malcolm had not finished dilating upon the blessing its departure had been to the community, when they reached the post office. A crowd stood collected about it, eager but quiet. They hid their concern in the true rural fashion and stood leaning against every available support with supreme indifference, shoulders high, hands in pockets, caps on one side. Store Thompson was more ceremonious. Before Scotty could alight, out he came with hands outstretched in greeting. He had prepared an elaborate speech of welcome, adorned with all the available polysyllables in the dictionary; but, when he saw Scotty's familiar face, his eyes shining with the joy of his home-coming, and Big Malcolm, erect and full of fire as though he had suddenly dropped twenty years of his life, his heart got the better of his head and he could only shake the voyageur's hand again and again and say: "Aye, ye're home again. Aye, ye've jist come home, like!"