scraped of mud, bore long cuts across the heels,
while shapeless trousers, a coat with gaping pockets,
hung loosely about his thin body and bowed shoulders.
He passed the idlers before the office of the
_Bugle_ with a scarcely perceptible nod; but, farther
on, he stopped before a solitary figure advancing
over the narrow footway.

It was Buckley Simmons. He was noticeably
smaller since his injury at the camp meeting; he had
shrivelled; his face was peaked and wrinkled like
the face of a very old man; the shadows in the
sunken cheeks did not resemble those on living skin,
but were dry and dusty like the autumn leaves. His
gaze was fixed upon the ground at his feet; but, as
he drew up to Gordon, he raised his head.

Into the dullness of his eyes, his slack lips, crept a
dim recognition; among the ashes of his consciousness
a spark glowed -- a single, live coal of bitter
hate.

"How are you, Buckley?" Gordon pronounced
slowly.

The other's hands clenched as the wave of
emotion crossed the blank countenance. Then the
hands relaxed, the face was again empty. He continued,
oblivious of Gordon's salutation, of his presence,
upon his way.

Gordon Makimmon stood for a moment gazing

[[282]]

p281 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p282w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p283

v?