his home was waiting for him whenever he wished to return to it, but that he should have no assistance if he remained away. "I can scarcely believe," he wrote, "that a son of mine will prefer to live on the charity of relatives. A good position can be obtained for you in Coulton. If, at any time, you desire to come back to it, and have not funds, write to me and I shall be glad to forward you your railroad ticket."
Don tore up the letter and tossed it into the gutter as he crossed the street. No! He was launched. Coulton and the past had already dropped below the horizon behind him. And he could not hope to have Margaret with him again until he reached that shore of his destiny which was still so distant, so uncertain, so far beyond sight of fancy even. He knew that the voyage was not going to be plain sailing in a fair wind; there would be calms and storms and all the delays and accidents of life. But some day, of course, he would arrive; and then (he thought), looking back at the hardships and the despairs, how sorry he should be that they were done with, and how proud that he had weathered them, and how amused to remember that he had almost given up hope under them, that it had seemed impossible they could ever come to an end, that he had longed for this peaceful conclusion which was now so tame a day compared with the adventurous struggles that had brought him to it.
In that mood he continued his unsuccessful search for employment. Learning the need of "references,"
