“The 30th day of May—Memorial day,” says Mr. Chase.
“It will be a memorial day for me,” responds Stanley. “Good-by, Mr. Chase, and thank you for your many kindnesses.”
“I’m rather sorry to have him go,” soliloquizes the warden, as his late charge walks slowly away from the institution. “Bright fellow, but peculiar—very peculiar.”
Stanley proceeds leisurely along the road leading to the station. His eyes are bent down, and he seemingly takes no note of the glories of the May day, of the throbbings of the busy life about him. A procession of Grand Army men, headed by a brass band that makes music more mournful than the occasion seems to call for, passes by on the dusty highway.
“Homage for the dead; contumely for the living,” he murmurs, bitterly.
The train for the north leaves at 4:30. Stanley spends the time between in making some small purchases at the village.
“At what hour do we arrive at Raymond?” he asks the conductor, as the train pulls out.
“Seven forty-five, if we are on time.”
“Thank you,” returns the young man. He draws his hat over his eyes, and turns his face to the window.