It was on the afternoon of the second day that Baptist Sloan opened his old carpet-bag for the remnants of the lunch that Luella had packed inside. His hand struck against Mrs. Bates's sarsaparilla bottle, and he shut his eyes with a sickening sensation of inward sinking. "And I've got to take that there thing back to her _empty_," he said, gritting his teeth. "Where am I ever goin' to get the spunk to face 'em all? They'll say it was a judgment on me, for a good many of 'em seemed to think that I was too proud to be baptized in Beargrass. They'll say that maybe it's to save me from fallin' short of heaven that I failed to reach the Jordan." As he slowly munched the dry remains of his lunch, the cogs of the car-wheels started anew the question that had tormented him all the way. "What _will_-Lu-_el_-la _say_? What _will_-Lu-_el_-la _say_?" they shrieked over and over. "She'll say that I'm an awful fool," he told himself. "She never could abide to be laughed at, and if people poke fun at me, she'll never have me in the world." The alternate hope and despair that seized him were like the deadly burning and chill of fever and ague. "If I only knew how _she'd_ take it!" was his inward cry. When he thought of her proverbial sharp tongue he quailed at the ordeal of meeting her. But through every interval of doubt came the fragrance of the moonlighted apple-orchard, the old stile, that one kiss--a remembrance as sweet as the blossom-time itself. Surely Luella must think of that. Presently he noticed that the brakeman was calling out the names of familiar stations, and he realized that he was almost home. Only a few minutes more to summon his courage and brace himself for his trial. The train rumbled over a trestle, and peering out through the gathering dusk he saw the shallow waters of Beargrass Creek, black with the reflection of the evening shadows. "The only Jordan Bap Sloan will ever see now," he said, with a shiver that sent a tremor through his bowed shoulders. "Beargrass Valley!" he heard the brakeman call. Nervously he clutched his carpet-bag and umbrella, and lurched down the aisle. But when the train stopped and he was half-way down the steps, he paused and clung an instant to the railing. "O Lord!" he groaned once more, involuntarily shrinking back. "If women wa'n't so awfully oncertain! If I just _knew_ what Luella's goin' to say!" As Baptist Sloan clicked the latch of his front gate behind him, and stood a moment in the path, the familiar outlines of his old home rising up in the dim light smote him with fresh pain. The thirty years of hope and struggle were there to meet him with accusing faces and to turn his home-coming into bitterness unspeakable--such bitterness as only those can know who have cringed under the slow heartbreak of utter failure. He did not even unlock the door, but dropping his carpet-bag and umbrella on the porch floor, sank down into the old wooden rocker, covering his face with his hands.