The Yale expositor., 1915-02-04
CHAPTER XIV.

Samson stopped at his studio and
threw open an old closet where from
a Uttered pile of discarded background
draperies, canvases and stretchers, he
fshed out a buried and dust-covered
pair of saddlebags. They had long
lain there forgotten, but they held the
rusty clothes in which he had left
Misery.
Samson had caught the fastest west
bound express on the schedule. In
thirty-six hours he would be at Hixon.
There were many things which his
brain must attack and digest in these
hours. He must arrange his plan of
action to its minutest detail because
he would have as little time for refec-
ton, once he had reached his own
country, as a wildcat flung into a pack
OF hounds.
From the railroad station to his
home he must make his way-most
probably fight his way-through thirty
miles of hostile territory where all
the trails were watched. And yet, for
the time, all that seemed too remotely
unreal to hold his thoughts.
He took out Sally's letter, and read
1t once more He read il mechanically
and as a piece of news that had
brought evil tidings. Then, suddenly,
another aspect of it struck him-an as
pect to which the shock of its recep-
ton had until this tardy moment
blinded him. The letter was perfectly
grammatical and penned in hand of
copybook roundness and evenness.
The address, the body of the missive
and the signature were all in one Chi
Biography She would not have intrust-
ed the writing of this letter to anyone
else.
Sally had learned to write.
Moreover, at the end were the
words, with love-" 1t was all plain
now. Sally had never repudiated him.
She was declaring herself true to her
mission and her love
Good God!" groaned the man, in alb
5ectly bitter self-contempt. His hand
went involuntarily to his cropped head,
and dropped with a gesture of self
doubling. He looked down at his tan
shoes and silk socks. He rolled back
his shirtsleeve and contemplated the
forearm that had once been as brown
and tough as leather 1t was now the
arm of city man, except for the burn.
ing of one outdoor week. He was
returning at the eleventh hour
stripped of the faith of his kinsmen,
halfstripped of his faith in himself.
If he were to realize the constructive
dreams Of which he had last night so
confidently prattled to Adrienne, he
must lead his people from under the
blighting shadow Of the feud.
He must reappear before his kins-
men as much as possible the boy who
had left them-not the fop with new
tangled affectations. His eyes fell
upon the saddlebags upon the floor of
the Pullman and he smiled satirically.
He would like to step from the train
at Hixon and walk brazenly through
the town in those old clothes, chal-
longing every hostile glance. II they
shot him down on the streets, as they
certainly would do. it would end his
questioning and his anguish of dilem-
ma. He would welcome that, but IL
would, after all, be Sinking the issue
He must get out of Hixon and into
his own country unrecognized. The
lean boy of four years ago was the
somewhat filled-out man now. The one
concession that he had made to Paris
life was the wearing of a closely
cropped mustache. That he still wore
had worn 1t chiefly because he liked
TO hear Adriennes humorous denuncia.
ton of II. He knew that, in HIS pres
ent guise and dress. he had an excel
lent chance Of walking through the