He got into his wagon mechanically and lashed his horses into a run. He must get home and arrange about his stock and catch the seven o'clock train. His mind ran the round of the possibilities in the case until it ached with the hopeless fatigue of it. When he got upon the train for an all-night ride, he looked like a man suffering some great physical pain.
He sat there all night in a common seat—he could not afford to pay for a sleeper; sat and suffered the honest torture that can come to a man—to sit and think the same dread, apprehensive wondering thoughts; to strain at the seat as if to push the train faster, and to ache with the desire to fly like the eagle. He tried to be patient, but he could only grow numb with the effort.
A glorious winter sun was beginning to light up the frost foliage of the maples lining St. Peter's streets when Anson, stiff with cold and haggard with a night of sleepless riding, sprang off the train and looked about him. The beauty of the morning made itself felt even through his care. These rows of resplendent maples, heavy with iridescent frost, were like fairy-land to him, fresh from the treeless prairie. As he walked on under them, showers of powdered rubies and diamonds fell down upon him; the colonnades seemed like those leading to some enchanted palace, such as he had read of in boyhood. Every shrub in the yards was similarly decked, and the snug cottages were like the little house which he had once seen at the foot of the Christmas-tree in a German church years before.
Feet crunched along cheerily on the sidewalks, bells of dray-teams were beginning to sound, and workmen to whistle.
Anson was met at the door by a hard-faced, middle-aged woman.
"How's my girl?" he asked.
"Oh, she's nicely. Walk in."
"She's sleepin'; I guess you better wait a little while till after breakfast."
"Where's Kendall?" was his next question.