Heknewtheonewhospokelast-FreemeCole，amanwhowasthefightingwonderofHoward’sboyhood，nowdegeneratedintoastoop-shouldered，faded，garrulous，andquarrelsomeoldman。Yettherewassomethingepicintheoldman’sstories，somethingenthrallinginthedramaticpowerofrecital。
Overbytheblacksmithshoptheusualgameofquaits“wasinprogress，andthedrugclerkonthecornerwaschasingacronywiththesquirtpump，withwhichhewasabouttowashthewindows。Afewteamsstoodankle-deepinthemud，tiedtothefantasticallygnawedpinepillarsofthewoodenawnings。Amanonaloadofhaywas“jawing“withtheattendantoftheplatformscales，whostoodbelow，padandpencilinhand。
“Hit’im!hit’im!Jumpoffandknock’im!“suggestedabystander，jovially。
Howardknewthevoice。
“Talk’scheap。Takesmoneyt’buywhiskey，“hesaidwhenthemanontheloadrepeatedhisthreatofgettingoffandwhippingthescalesman。
“You’reWilliamMcTurg，“Howardsaid，cominguptohim。
“Iam，sir，“repliedthesoft-voicedgiantturningandlookingdownonthestrangerwithanamusedtwinkleinhisdeepbrowneyes。HestoodaserectasanIndian，thoughhishairandbeardwerewhite。
“I’mHowardMcLane。“
“Yebegint’lookit，“saidMcTurg，removinghisrighthandfromhispocket。“Howareyeh？“
“I’mfirst-rate。How’sMotherandGrant？“
“Saw’implowingcornasIcamedown。Guesshe’sallright。Wantaboost？“
“Well，yes。Areyoudownwithateam？“
“Yep。’Boutgoin’home。Climbrightin。That’smyrig，rightthere，“
noddingatasleekbaycolthitchedinacoveredbuggy。“Heavey’rgripundertheseat。“
TheyclimbedintotheseatafterWilliamhadloweredthebuggytopandunhitchedthehorsefromthepost。Theloafersweremildlycurious。GuessedBillhadgothookedontobyalightnin’-rodpeddler，orsomethin’o’thatkind。
“Wanttogobyriver，or’roundbythehills？“
“Hills，Iguess。“
Thewholematterbegantoseemtrivial，asifhehadonlybeenawayforamonthortwo。
WilliamMcTurgwasamanlittlegiventotalk。Eventhecomingbackofanephewdidnotcauseanyflowofquestionsorreminiscences。Theyrodeinsilence。Hesatalittlebentforward，thelinesheldcarelesslyinhishands，hisgreatleonineheadswayingtoandfrowiththemovementofthebuggy。
Astheypassedfamiliarspots，theyoungermanbrokethesilencewithaquestion。
“That’soldmanMcElvaine’splace，ain’tit？“
“Oldmanliving？“
“Iguessheis。Huskmorecorn’nanymanhec’nhire。“
Ontheedgeofthevillagetheypassedanopenlotontheleft，markedwithcircusringsofdifferenteras。
“There’stheoldballground。Dotheyhavecircusesonitjustthesameasever？“
“Justthesame。“
“Whatfunthatfieldcallsup!Thegamesofballweusedtohave!
Doyouplayyet？“
“Sometimes。Can’tstoopsowellasIusedto。“Hesmiledalittle。
“Toomuchfat。“
ItallsweptbackuponHowardinafloodofnamesandfacesandsightsandsounds；somethingsweetandstirringsomehow，thoughithadlittleofestheticcharmatthetime。Theywerepassingalonglanesnow，betweensuperbfieldsofcorn，whereinplowmenwereatwork。Kingbirdsflewfromposttopostaheadofthem；theinsectscalledfromthegrass。Thevalleyslowlyoutspreadbelowthem。Theworkmeninthefieldswere“turningout“forthenight；
theyallhadawordofchaffwithMcTurg。
Overthewesternwallofthecirclingamphitheaterthesunwassetting。Afewscatteringcloudsweredriftingonthewestwind，theirshadowsslidingdownthegreenandpurpleslopes。Thedazzlingsunlightflamedalongthelusciousvelvetygrass，andshotamidtherounded，distantpurplepeaks，andstreamedinbarsofgoldandcrimsonacrossthebluemistofthenarroweruppercoulee。
Theheartoftheyoungmanswelled’withpleasurealmostlikepain，andtheeyesofthesilentoldermantookonafar-off，dreaminglook，ashegazedatthescenewhichhadrepeateditselfathousandtimesinhislife，butofwhosebeautyheneverspoke。
FardowntotheleftwasthebreakinthewallthroughwhichtheriverranonitswaytojointheMississippi。Astheyclimbedslowlyamongthehills，thevalleytheyhadleftgrewstillmorebeautiful，asthesqualorofthelittletownwashidbytheduskofdistance。
Bothmenweresilentforalongtime。Howardknewthepeculiaritiesofhiscompaniontoowelltomakeanyremarksoraskanyquestions，andbesidesitwasagenuinepleasuretoridewithonewhocouldfeelthatsilencewastheonlyspeechamidsuchsplendors。
Oncetheypassedalittlebrooksinginginamourn-fullysweetwayitseternalsongoveritspebbles。ItcalledbacktoHowardthedayswhenheandGrant，hisyoungerbrother，hadfishedinthislittlebrookfortrout，withtrousersrolledabovethekneeandwrecksofhatsupontheirheads。
“Anytroutleft？“heasked。
“Notmany。Littlefellers。“Findingthesilencebroken，WilliamaskedthefirstquestionsincehemetHoward。“Le’ssee：you’reashowfellernow？B’longtoatroupe？“
“Yes，yes；I’manactor。“
“Paymuch？“
“Prettywell。“
ThatseemedtoendWilliam’scuriosityaboutthematter。
“Ah，there’souroldhouse，ain’tit？“Howardbrokeout，pointingtooneofthehousesfartherupthecoulee。“It’llbeasurprisetothem，won’tit？“
“Yep；onlytheydon’tlivethere。“
“What!Theydon’t!“
“Whodoes？“
“Dutchman。“
Howardwassilentforsomemoments。“WholivesontheDunlapplace？“
“’NotherDutchman。“
“Where’sGrantliving，anyhow？“
“Fartheruptheconlee。“
“Well，thenI’dbettergetouthere，hadn’tI？“
“Oh，I’lldriveyehup。“
“No，I’dratherwalk。“
Thesunhadset，andthecouleewasgettingduskwhenHowardgotoutofMcTurg’scarriageandsetoffupthewindinglanetowardhisbrother’shouse。Hewalkedslowlytoabsorbthecoolnessandfragranceandcolorofthehour。Thekatydidssangarhythmicsongofwelcometohim。Fireflieswereinthegrass。Awhippoorwillinthedeepofthewoodwascallingweirdly，andanoccasionalnighthawk，flyinghigh，gavehisgratingshriek，orhollowboom，suggestiveandresounding。
Hehadbeenwonderfullysuccessful，andyethadcarriedintohissuccessasadramaticauthoraswellasactoracertainpuritanismthatmadehimaparadoxtohisfellows。Hewasoneofthoseactorswhoarealwaysinluck，andthebestofitwashekeptandmadeuseofhisluck。Jovialasheappeared，hewasinflexibleasgraniteagainstdrinkandtobacco。Heretainedthroughitallacertainfreshnessofenjoymentthatmadehimoneofthebestcompanionsintheprofession；andnowashewalkedon，thehourandtheplaceappealedtohimwithgreatpower。Itseemedtosweepawaythelifethatcamebetween。
Howcloseitallwastohim，afterall!Inhisrestlesslife，surroundedbythegiareofelectriclights，paintedcanvas，hotcolors，creakofmachinery，mocktrees，stones，andbrooks，hehadnotlostbutgainedappreciationforthecoolness，quietandlowtones，theshynessofthewoodandfield。
Inthefarmhouseaheadofhimalightwasshiningashepeeredahead，andhisheartgaveanotherpainfulmovement。Hisbrotherwasawaitinghimthere，andhismother，whomhehadnotseenfortenyearsandwhohadgrownunabletowrite。AndwhenGrantwrote，whichhadbeenmoreandmoreseldomoflate，hislettershadbeencoldandcurt。
Hebegantofeelthatinthepleasureandexcitementofhislifehehadgrownawayfromhismotherandbrother。Eachsummerhehadsaid，“Well，nowI’llgohomethisyearsure。“Butanewplaytobeproduced，orayachtingtrip，oratourofEurope，hadputthehomecomingoff；andnowitwaswithadistinctconsciousnessofneglectofdutythathewalkeduptothefenceandlookedintotheyard，whereWilliamhadtoldhimhisbrotherlived。
Itwashumbleenough-asmallwhitehouse，story-and-a-halfstructure，withawing，setinthemidstofafewlocusttrees；asmalldrab-coloredbarn，withasaggingridgepole；abarnyardfullofmud，inwhichafewcowswerestanding，fightingthefliesandwaitingtobemilked。Anoldmanwaspumpingwateratthewell；
thepigsweresquealingfromapennearby；achildwascrying。
Instantlythebeautiful，peacefulvalleywasforgotten。AsickeningchillstruckintoHoward’ssoulashelookedatitall。Inthedimlighthecouldseeafiguremilkingacow。Leavinghisvaliseatthegate，heenteredandwalkeduptotheoldman，whohadfinishedpumpingandwasabouttogotofeedthehogs。
“Goodevening，“Howardbegan。“DoesMr。GrantMcLanelivehere？“
“Yes，sir，hedoes。He’srightovertheremilkin’。“
“I’llgoovertherean-“
“Don’tb’lieveIwould。It’sdarnmuddyoverthere。It’sbeenturriblerainy。He’llbedoneinaminute，any-way。“
“Verywell；I’llwait。“
Ashewaited，hecouldhearawoman’sfretfulvoice，andtheimpatientjerkandjarofkitchenthings，indicativeofilltemperorworry。Thelongerhestoodabsorbingthisfarmscene，withallitssordidness，dullness，triviality，anditsendlessdrudgeries，thelowerhisheartsank。Allthejoyofthehomecomingwasgone，whenthefigurearosefromthecowandapproachedthegate，andputthepailofmilkdownontheplatformbythepump。
“Goodevening，“saidHowardoutofthedusk。
Grantstaredamoment。“Good。evening。“
Howardknewthevoice，thoughitwasolderanddeeperandmoresullen。“Don’tyouknowme，Grant？IamHoward。
Themanapproachedhim，gazingintentlyathisface。“Youare？“
afterapause。“Well，I’mgladtoseeyeh，butIcan’tshakehands。
Thatdamnedcowhadlaiddowninthemud。“
Theystoodandlookedateachother。Howard’scuffs，collar，andshirt，alienintheirelegance，showedthroughthedusk，andaglintoflightshotoutfromthejewelofhisnecktie，asthelightfromthehousecaughtitattherightangle。Astheygazedinsilenceateachother，Howarddivinedsomethingofthehard，bitterfeelingwhichcameintoGrant’sheartashestoodthere，ragged，ankle-deepinmuck，hissleevesrolledup，ashapelessoldstrawhatonhishead。
ThegleamofHoward’swhitehandsangeredhim。Whenhespoke，itwasinahard，grufftone，fullofrebellion。
“Well，gointhehouseandsetdown。I’llbeinsoon’sIstrainthemilkandwashthedirtoffmyhands。“
“ButMother-“
“She’s’roundsomewhere。Justknockonthedoorundertheporch’roundthere。“
Howardwentslowlyaroundthecornerofthehouse，pastavilelysmellingrainbarrel，towardthewest。Agray-hairedwomanwassittinginarockingchairontheporch，herhandsinherlap，hereyesfixedonthefaintlyyellowsky，againstwhichthehillsstooddimpurplesilhouettesandthelocusttreeswereetchedasfineaslace。Therewassorrow，resignation，andasortofdumbdespairinherattitude。
Howardstood，histhroatswellingtillitseemedasifhewouldsuffocate。Thiswashismother-thewomanwhoborehim，thebeingwhohadtakenherlifeinherhandforhim；andhe，inhisexcitedandpleasurablelife，hadneglectedher!
Hesteppedintothefaintlightbeforeher。Sheturnedandlookedathimwithoutfear。“Mother!“hesaid。Sheutteredonelittle，breathing，gaspingcry，calledhisname，rose，andstoodstill。Heboundedupthestepsandtookherinhisarms。
“Mother!DearoldMother!“
Inthesilence，almostpainful，whichfollowed，anangrywoman’svoicecouldbeheardinside：“Idon’tcare。Iam’tgoin’towearmyselfoutferhim。Hec’neatoutherewithus，orelse-“
Mrs。McLanebeganspeaking。“Oh，I’velongedtoseeyeh，Howard。
Iwasafraidyouwouldn’tcometill-toolate。“
“Whatdoyoumean，Mother？Ain’tyouwell？“
“Idon’tseemtobeabletodomuchnow’ceptsitaroundandknitalittle。Itriedtopicksomeberriestheotherday，andIgotsodizzyI
hadtogiveitup。“
“Youmustn’twork。Youneedn’twork。Whydidn’tyouwritetomehowyouwere？“Howardaskedinanagonyofremorse。
“Well，wefeltasifyouprobablyhadallyoucoulddototakecareofyourself。“