and he passed the old building in which his father's office had been.
Faces of foreigners gazed at him. Foreigners seemed to have doubled their census in the last year; and the many-bloods, whom he had deemed characteristic of Chicago, crowded the ancient, narrow, twisted streets dear to his memories. But also there were men and women of his own kind, more of them, many more than in Chicago. He bought a Transcript, found it comfortingly the same and boarded his train for Haverhill.
From the little city, he was driven by motor over the old, old road to the gate which opened in the same direction and which swung over the exact arc as the stockade gate which Calvin Clarke had hinged two hundred and seventy years ago.
As he swung back the gate, his mother appeared in the doorway, under the old sun-dial, and he saw, with his first glance, that her cheeks were pink as ever, if her hair was a shade whiter; she was straight and strong and unchanged; the house and garden had not changed, the silence and peace of the place remained. The very sunlight over his shoulder and the shadows and fallen leaves on the pebbly path seemed to Calvin the same; and he went up the path, not hurrying, but with his heart swelling in his breast.
"My son, welcome home," his mother called, in her calm voice, half holding forth her arms, precisely as he had known she would; for she always did it so.
She extended her hands, at moments like this, but never quite toward him, rather before her and downward as she had held them out to him, undoubtedly, when he was a little child running to her. Judging from the height at which she held her hands, he had been about five years old when she last put out her arms, unrestrainedly, toward him.
