The Dark Star

It was a five-hour trip. He dined aboard the train with little desire

for food, the July evening being oppressive, and a thunder storm

brewing over the Hudson. It burst in the vicinity of Fishkill with a

lively display of lightning, deluging the Catskills with rain. And

when he changed to a train on the Mohawk division the cooler air was

agreeably noticeable.

He changed trains again at Orangeville, and here the night breeze was

delightful and the scent of rain-soaked meadows came through the open

car window.

It was nearly ten o'clock and already, ahead, he caught sight of the

lights of Neeland's Mills. Always the homecoming was a keen delight to

him; and now, as he stepped off the train, the old familiar odours

were in his nostrils--the unique composite perfume of the native place

which never can be duplicated elsewhere.

All the sweet and aromatic and homely smells of earth and land and

water came to him with his first deep-drawn breath. The rank growth of

wild flowers and weeds were part of it--the flat atmosphere of the

mill pond, always redolent of water weed and lily pads, tinctured it;

distant fields of buckwheat added heavier perfume.

Neither in the quaint brick feed mill nor in the lumber mill were

there any lights, but in his own home, almost buried among tall trees

and vines, the light streamed from the sitting-room windows.

From the dark yard two or three dogs barked at him, then barked again

in a different key, voicing an excited welcome; and he opened the

picket gate and went up the path surrounded by demonstrative setters

and pointers, leaping and wagging about him and making a vast amount

of noise on the vine-covered verandah as he opened the door, let

himself into the house, and shut them out.

"Hello, dad!" he said, crossing swiftly to where his father sat by the

reading lamp.

Their powerful grip lingered. Old Dick Neeland, ruddy, white-haired,

straight as a pine, stood up in his old slippers and quilted smoking

coat, his brier pipe poised in his left hand.

"Splendid, Jim. I've been thinking about you this evening." He might

have added that there were few moments when his son was not in his

thoughts.

"Are you all right, dad?"

"Absolutely. You are, too, I see."

They seated themselves.

"Hungry, Jim?"

"No; I dined aboard."

"You didn't telegraph me."

"No; I came at short notice."

"Can't you stay?"

"Dad, I have a drawing-room reserved for the midnight tonight, and I

am sailing on the Volhynia tomorrow at nine in the morning!"

"God bless me! Why, Jim?"

"Dad, I'll tell you all I know about it."

His father sat with brier pipe suspended and keen blue eyes fixed on

his son, while the son told everything he knew about the reason for

his flying trip to Paris.