Everything was the same as when Tom had last seen them: trees, houses, stores, people, everything. Shipwreck, death, loneliness and misery had been around him for a year and a half, and yet Eastcaster was the same as though he had not come back to it through the valley of the shadow of death. It seemed strange to him that it should be so; it was as though he had left everything but yesterday. Here was Pepperill’s store, there the blacksmith shop. They passed Parkinson’s tobacco store; a number of men were sitting on chairs around the door in the sunshine. They looked up at the stage with dull interest. Tom knew them all, but not one of them recognized him. A little further along, on the opposite side of the street, was Mr. Moor’s office. As they rumbled by it, Tom saw that two men were standing at the window looking absently into the street; one of them was Mr. Moor, the other was Isaac Naylor. A thrill darted through him when he saw Isaac Naylor; it was strange that the sight of his former rival should seem to bring Patty so near to him. The two men looked at the stage as it passed, but they saw nothing, for their minds were evidently fixed upon other things. Mr. Moor was talking, looking anxious and worried; Isaac Naylor was listening, cold and impassive. Tom noticed this in the moment that he was passing. Then the stage stopped, for it was in front of the _Crown and Angel_, and Black Jim—the identical Black Jim that Tom had left a year and a half ago, who was standing out in the road, waiting the coming of the stage—loosened the straps at the horses’ necks. The passengers tumbled out from the inside, and Tom got down from the box, and stood looking about him. There were a group of loungers sitting along the tavern porch in the warm sunlight; their feet on the railing, and their chairs tilted back. Tom knew nearly all of them, but they did not recognize him;—he never fully realized till then, how changed he was in his appearance. Even Mrs. Bond, the landlady, who was standing at the door with her hands under her apron, did not know him. Some one came walking along the street and stopped, for a moment, to look at the stage—it was Will Gaines. “He’ll know me, at least,” said Tom, to himself, but he did not; he looked at Tom, but there was no other light than that of curiosity in his eyes. “Will,” said he, at last; “Will Gaines, don’t you know me?” Then sudden recognition flashed into Will’s face. He stood for a moment as though bereft of speech; then he strode forward, and clutched Tom by the shoulder. “My God! Tom Granger; is it—is it you? They said you were dead! I—I—” Then he stopped, and Tom felt his hands trembling as they lay on his shoulders. “Dead!” said Tom, after a moment of silence. “Yes, Tom; dead.” “But I’m not dead,” said Tom, smiling, and trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping over him.