Bressant

The willow-trees started suddenly from the forward darkness, and

vanished past in a dusky twinkling. The road seemed drawn in swift,

smooth lines from beneath his feet, he moving as in a mighty treadmill.

The breeze softly smote his forehead, and whispered past his ears. Now

he rose lightly in the air over an unexpected puddle, striking the

farther side with feet together, and so on again. Twice or thrice, his

steps sounded hollowly over a plank bridging. At a distance, steadily

approaching, appeared the outlet, light against the dark willow setting.

When it was reached, ensued a rough acclivity, hard for knees and lungs,

winding upward for a considerable distance. Up the runner went, with

seemingly untired activity, and the stones and sand spurted from beneath

his ascending feet. The air became drier and warmer again as he mounted,

and the meadows slept beneath him in their clammy darkness.

Near the brow of the hill stood a farm-house, black against the sky.

Bressant marked the light through the curtained window, dimly bringing

out a transverse strip of road; the pump standing over its trough with

uplifted arm and dangling cup; the rambling shed, with the wagon half

hidden beneath it; the barn, with blank windowless front, and shingled

roof. A dog barked sharply at him, as he echoed by, but inaudibly to

Bressant's ears. Presently a raised sidewalk divided off from the road,

affording a smoother course; the outlying houses of the village slipped

past one after another; a white picket-fence twittered indistinguishably

by. The runner was nearing the end of his journey, and now leaned a

little farther forward, and his feet fell in a quicker rhythm than ever.

At the beginning of the village street stood the corner grocery; a

wooden awning in front, some men loafing at the door, who looked up as

the sound of Bressant's passing struck their ears; within, an indistinct

vision of barrels of produce, hams pendent from the dusky ceiling, some

brooms in a corner, and a big cheese upon the counter. Next succeeded

the series of adjoining shop-fronts, with their various windows, signs,

and styles; all wooden and clap-boarded, however, except the fire-engine

house, of red brick, with its wide central door and boarded slope to the

street. Bressant's steps echoed closely back from between the buildings;

once he clattered sharply over a stretch of brick sidewalk; once dodged

aside to avoid overrunning a dark-figured man. The village was left

behind; yonder stood the boarding-house, dimly white and irregular of

outline; he remembered it from the glimpse he had had in passing on his

way from the depot. In a few quick moments more he stood before the

door, glowing warm, from head to foot, drawing his deep breath easily,

his blood flowing in full, steady beats through heart and veins. He took

off his hat, passed his handkerchief over forehead and face, and then

pulled the tinkling door-bell. A fat Irish girl presently appeared, and

ushered him in with a stare and a grin, wiping her hands upon her apron.