THE PATH OF VISION
Two years later—miracle of miracles!—I met him again in New York—on a subway train. He recognized me first, hailed me with an exclamation and a slap of the hand. It was the hand of a strong, robust and cheerful being. I confess I would never have recognized him as the Timon of the hills I once met. My first feeling, after the delectable surprise, was as one of irresistible curiosity. How did he do it? How, in the eternal vicissitude of fate and genius, did he become reconciled? And a strap-hanger to boot! He looked prosperous, to be sure; but there was in his face and manner an unmistakable something which the city dwellers acquire—a rigidity of expression which marks their pauses and moments of quiescence. They forget, and seem of a sudden to remember, that they are parts, more or less important, of a gigantic machine. My friend seemed eager nevertheless to tell me how he recovered his health and his faith in life.
We walked out of the Subway as hilarious as children coming out of school, and went
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