him, they had caught him, the warden had caught him, and put him in the lock-up of the little town. Darkness had come, the numbed apathy had passed, his soul had seemed as a seething vortex and like a wild man he had torn his way to freedom.
Since then, that was two months ago now, the days and weeks had passed as in a dream. He had gone from place to place, working, a little here, a little there, at whatever offered—then on again. Never but a few days at most in the same place—not so much from fear of capture, he felt strangely free and safe from that, but because of the restlessness of spirit that he could not quell, that grew ever stronger, more insistent, more constantly with him as the days went by.
In the hours of night when wakeful or asleep, in the day at whatever task he might be engaged upon the craving of his soul never left him—to hear the sound of her voice again, to see her face, her smile. It was worth any price, any risk—what else could matter? It was his life—the one thing his soul asked for. A hopeless thing—illogical? Perhaps—but it was unconquerable. Logic, philosophy and reason—what part had they in this? What was logic, what philosophy, what reason to the yearning prompted by a love that made all else but naught! Unwise, unsafe?—his was the risk, his the added pang, if pang it would cause him; upon him and him alone the consequences—she would never know!
Just to hear her voice, to see her face, her smile once more, to feel her presence near him—because he loved her.
Well, he had come! He had left the train at a station
