He had only to look for a youth of perhaps eighteen years, who would be alone, a little frightened, possibly, and who would have a pink in his buttonhole, and probably a dog on a leash.
As he waited, the man was conscious of a curious warmth at his heart.
It was his namesake, Walter Neilson's boy, that he had come to meet; a homesick, lonely orphan who had appealed to him--to him, out of all the world.

Long years ago in his own arms there had been laid a tiny bundle of flannel holding a precious little red, puckered face.

But in a month's time the little face had turned cold and waxen, and the hopes that the white flannel bundle had carried had died with the baby boy;--and that baby would have been a lad grown by this time, if he had lived--a lad not far from the age of this Billy who was coming to-day, reflected the man.

And the warmth in his heart deepened and glowed the more as he stood waiting at the gate for Billy to arrive.
The train from Hampden Falls was late.

Not until quite fifteen minutes past five did it roll into the train-shed.