On an evening in early May, a young man was walking sharply along the country road that passed through the fishing-village of Mistwell, and, following the shore of one of those inland seas, oddly called great lakes, led to the town of Brancepeth, seven miles away.
The young man was just above medium height and just under thirty, and he walked with a resolute and eager step that spoke of some elation of spirit. As the deep ruts of the road were half-frozen he kept to the side, where a narrow path was beaten, looking about him with the interest of one who sees his future surroundings for the first time. His wide-open, greenish-blue eyes rested with pleasurable curiosity, first on the budding orchards to his right, and then on the level expanse of the lake, flushed pink by the reflection of the western sky, to his left.
His eyes were not only wide open, as though they looked life eagerly in the face, expecting more than most men: but they had a free, fearless, careless look, that, combined with his closely cropped fair hair, and small, tawny mustache, made him appear even younger than he was. His strong limbs denoted vigour and his full, round chin and rather wide nostrils indicated some rashness and dominance of character.
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