That tall figure, in a rather close-fitting suit, with an old sombrero crowning a head and covering a face which evidently belonged to a man of thought and culture, must surely be Dr. Lycurgus B. Spooner, physician and wanderer by profession. And that other figure, shorter, stouter, broader-shouldered, surmounted by a bronzed, honest face, can belong to none other than Peter Brush.
Together they sit in the twilight, which comes earlier in the shadow of the hills, at the door of their humble residence, smoking clay pipes at the close of their day’s labor.
For a time they are silent. Then Mr. Brush lays aside his pipe, and turning to his companion, says, slowly:
“Doctor, I don’t know why it is, but to-day I’ve been thinkin’ more than usual of poor Tom.”
“So have I, friend Brush. I don’t know why it is, but when I was at my work, his image kept rising before me.”
“How long have we been here, doctor?”
“Three months to-day, friend Brush.”
“And we haven’t heard anything of Tom in all that time.”
“It was hardly to be expected. There isn’t any post-office where he is, and if there was, he would not know where to direct to us.”