Laurence scowled under the rim of his cap, and reflected that he must get himself a suit of civilian clothes. The street he was on brought him to the railroad tracks. A long freight-train was passing, car after car loaded with cattle, going to Chicago. After it had passed, he crossed the tracks, and the street became a road, which led up a slight rise, to the cemetery. He followed it listlessly, his eyes fixed on the wide expanse of tombstones, crosses, spires, slabs of grey and white, that covered the swell of the prairie. The cemetery was considerably more populous than the town, he thought; and now he was here, he would go and look at his mother's grave. He had some difficulty in finding it, though he vaguely remembered its location. The lot had been neglected, the prairie-grass had grown long over it, hiding the grey slab with her name, the date of her death and her age, forty-seven. Another small stone, with a dove and the name "Evangeline," marked the grave of his little sister, dead twenty years. And this was all that remained of his family. Patrick lay on the field of Shiloh. As to his father, he might be dead or living—he had run away ten years before, and nothing had ever been heard of him.
He stood looking sorrowfully down on the unkempt grass. Poor his mother had lived, poor she had died, and alone too. Pat and he had both gone and left her. He had been very fond of his mother. The proud woman she was, and silent, with long black hair and fine little hands and feet—and she worked at the wash-tub, and he and Pat, bare-footed boys, carried the wash home in baskets. Oh, but she had a bitter tongue when she did let it out, and she let his father have it. He remembered the night when his father struck her, and he, Laurence, fifteen then, knocked his father flat on the floor. That was the last night they saw him, he had sworn he wouldn't stay to be beaten by his own son, and they had all been glad he went....
He turned away, and went on across the rise, thinking he would get out into the country. At the far side of the cemetery he passed a little plot without even a headstone but neatly kept, where a girl in a grey dress was kneeling, setting out some plants. He noticed her slim figure and her copper-coloured hair, but passed without seeing her face. She called after him.
"Oh, Larry! Is it you?"
He turned and she got up and put out both hands to him, smiling, showing her big white teeth.
"Well, Nora!" he cried, clasping her hands gladly. "Why, what a young lady you've grown!"
She was not pretty, her red mouth was too big and her nose turned up, and she was freckled, but she had a slim graceful shape, her hair was a glory and her eyes full of warmth. She had been Laurence's playmate of old—she belonged to the only other Irish family in town. They had lived in the slum together, and she had been his first sweetheart.
"And you!" she said, looking at him shyly with artless admiration. "I hardly knew you, and yet I knew it was you!"
They stood and talked for a while. Laurence found out that she was tending the grave of her brother, "Colin, you'll remember," who had come back with the prison-fever on him, and died, "wasted to the bone." And that she did very well, she had been working on a dairy farm but it was too hard for her, and now she had got a place in the store, and was to begin next week. She lived with her mother. When Laurence said he would go to see her she seemed a little embarrassed, and asked, couldn't they meet some evening outside, her mother was a bit queer. So they arranged to meet on Sunday evening, (Mary would be at church) by the big willow on the river road. Nora looked a little disappointed, perhaps at having the meeting put off so long, but she was not one to demand or expect much. Laurence remembered what she had been—an humble, generous little creature, grateful for the least kindness, and she didn't get much. She was always giving more than she got, to her family and every one. She was hot-tempered, too, and would fly into a rage easily, and then dissolve in repentant tears. He looked at her rough red hands—poor Nora always had worked hard. But her neat dress, her carefully arranged hair, showed that she was making the most of herself. Her skin was soft and creamy, in spite of the freckles, her eyes were almost the colour of her hair, deep reddish-brown. They were like a dog's eyes, so soft and warm and wistful. Poor Nora, what a good little thing she was! With a quick glance round, Laurence seized her in his arms and kissed her very warmly on her red mouth. She blushed and trembled, but did not resist. She never had been able to resist any sign of affection, however careless. He kissed her again, and said a few tender words to her, in a lordly way. The homage of her shining dazzled eyes was sweet to him. And besides, the remembrance of old times had wakened.
As he left her and went on down the slope, along the country road, he realized that his memories of this place were deep. He would still have said that there was not much he cared to remember, that it was better to cut loose and begin afresh in some new place. The poverty of his boyhood still stung him, the community had looked down upon him and his, and old slights rankled in him. And yet it seemed that, little by little, things were shaping to tie him here. Not only outside, but in himself he was feeling as if some root went down deep into the black soil of the prairie and held him.