OLD Stafford had changed wonderfully L in the six years which passed after Fred Walton’s flight. The building of President Galt’s trunk-line to the sea had marked the turning-point in the town’s career. The older portion of the place remained quite as it was, but new suburbs and new centres of commerce had sprung up beyond the old incorporated limits. Where farms, fields, and pastures had once been, now lay even, well-graded, and electric-lighted streets. No small city in the South had a better freight-rate to all points, and this had brought about the establishment of various manufacturing enterprises which had greatly increased the population. The clang and clatter¹ of new growth was in the air; speculation² in building-sites was rife³. The modest price of one day was the jest of the next. Owning a great deal of the land along the new railway, General Sylvester was now more wealthy than ever, and the new interest in life had given him back his youth and health.

As for Kenneth Galt, he had scarcely spent a day in the town of his birth since his hurried journey to New York to meet the capitalists whose co-operation had made the road a certainty. His explanation to Sylvester was that other points on the long line constantly demanded his attention. His old home was still cared for by Mrs. Wilson as housekeeper⁴ and John Dilk as gardener, and now and then a false report had emanated⁵ from these proud and worshipful menials that the distinguished⁶ owner was coming back to reside there permanently⁷. Indeed, he had promised General Sylvester to do so time after time, only to make more delays and more excuses.

“He’s coming this time sure,” the old soldier said to his nephew on the veranda⁸ one day in the early part of the present summer. “I had a letter from him this morning, in which he promised to come and spend the hot weather here and take a good long rest. Mrs. Wilson said, also, that he had written her about

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