It was a painful thing to remember his dusty rustiness of the night before, the awful Carlow cut of his coat, and his formless black cravat; the same felt hat he wore again to-night, perforce, but it was brushed--brushed almost to holes in spots, and somehow he had added a touch of shape to it.

His dress-coat was an antique; fashions had changed, no doubt; he did not know; possibly she would recognize its vintage--but it was a dress-coat.
Lige walked along talking; Harkless answering "Yes" and "No" at random.
The woodland-spiced air was like champagne to him; the road under foot so elastic and springy that he felt like a thoroughbred before a race; he wanted to lift his foot knee-high at every step, he had so much energy to spare.

In the midst of a speech of Lige's about the look of the wheat he suddenly gave out a sigh so deep, so heartfelt, so vibrant, so profound, that Willetts turned with astonishment; but when his eye reached his companion's face, Harkless was smiling.

The editor extended his hand.
"Shake hands, Lige," he cried.
The moon peeped over the shoulder of an eastern wood, and the young men suddenly descried their long shadows stretching in front of them.
Harkless turned to look at the silhouetted town, the tree-tops and roofs and the Methodist church spire, silvered at the edges.
"Do you see that town, Willetts ?" he asked, laying his fingers on his companion's sleeve.

"That's the best town in the United States!" "I always kind of thought you didn't much like it," said the other, puzzled.