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town and he had never been home
since his mother died. He had al
ways meant to, until he heard of Mi
riam's marriage, and then he had
dropped aveil over the past. Now he
had a sudden longing to see the little
place again.
He took his suitcase all he was
carrying with him and got off. Two
other passengers were leaving the
train. One was a man about fifty-five
and the other a girl of nineteen or
twenty. As Stanley stood on the plat
form she turned and he saw Miriam
looking at him.
He raised his hat automatically,
gasped and stood staring at her fool
ishly. The girl looked doubtful for a
moment then she whispered to her
father, who turned with a puzzled ex
pression upon his face.
"I beg your pardon," stammered
Stanley, "but my name is Robert
Stanley and I I seemed to recog
nize "
"You did," smiled the man. "What
an odd meeting! My name is Roger
Leston and this is my daughter Mi
riam. Her mother often spoke of
you." r
"I knew you from your photo
graph, Mr. Stanley, at once," said the
girl, smiling. "Though it was taken
before I was born."
"I feel complimented," said Stan
ley. "Are you staying in Birmingham?"
inquired the other. "If so, you must
be my guest I hope you won't re
fuse, for my wife always spoke so
kindly of you; in fac.t, I understand
you were an old admirer of hers."
Kindly of him! Could any one have
ever spoken kindly of him? Stanley
was unguarded. For the first time in
a score of years he dropped the mask
of coldness that he presented to the
"And I know all about you," the el
derly gentleman continued. "I was
saying to Miriam only yesterday that
you must be harassed to death by
those Wall street scoundrels. We
hope you'll best them. You see, we i
all speak kindly of you in Binning-
ham. It will be a great honor "
Before Stanley could recover from
the surprise of this dramatic meeting
he had accepted Leston's hospitality
overnight But on the following
morning he found himself unable to
rise.
It was nothing serious, the doctor
said, but weeks of anxiety had broken
down Stanley's strength. And, com
ing back to the old town, with its boy
hood memories, he had yielded to the
weakening and softening influence.
He was like a runner who drops ex
hausted at the end of a race. For
five days he did not stir from his
room; he was too exhausted to leave
his bed, even, during the greater part
of them.
Leston had scrupulously respected
his secret, and, as Stanley had given
out that he intended to spend a week
in the mountains no anxiety or sur
prise was caused by his disappear
ance.
On the sixth day he came to the
conclusion that the old life, always
hateful since the attack on him, was
now impossible. But the idea of run
ning away had somehow become
equally impossible. Life seemed con
struable only in terms of the-little
town and Miriam.
In the girl he saw his old Ipve,
fairer, and with the same winning
charm and sweetness. And with the
new life to begin it, it seemed un
believable that he should not have
Miriam to share it.
That night he had a frank talk with
Mr. Leston. He had already told
him much of himself, but now he
bared his life from the beginning. He
told him his hopes and fears, how
he had planned to run away, how the
strange meeting had affected him.
"It may sound strange to you,, sir,
in a man of 45," he said, "but I feel
like a young fellow coming to you to
ask for your daughter's hand. , If
Miriam does not consider the differ
ence in our ages an irreparable dis
qualification, may I have your per
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