nizingly to her face. Verily, even the sailor of the posters saw the world and all its glories.
The agent leaned his face against the bars.
"Your train," he called, "is crossing the Main Street trestle."
They filed out upon the platform, Mr. Magee carrying Mrs. Norton's luggage amid her effusive thanks. On the platform waited a stranger equipped for travel. It was Mr. Max who made the great discovery.
"By the Lord Harry," he cried, "it's the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain."
And so it was, his beard gone, his hair clumsily hacked, his body garbed in the height of an old and ludicrous fashion, his face set bravely toward the cities once more.
"Yes," he said, "I walked the floor, thinking it all over. I knew it would happen, and it has. The winters are hard, and the sight of you—it was too much. The excitement, the talk—it did for me, did for my oath. So I'm going back to her—back to Brooklyn for Christmas."
"A merry one to you," growled Cargan.
