He was walking across the railroad yards where as a boy he had been wont to steal rides on freight trains.

Soon he reached the bridge.

In the gathering twilight he halted to clutch at the railing and look out across where the waters met--where Sycamore Creek flowed into Middleville River.

The roar of water falling over the dam came melodiously and stirringly to his ears.

And as he looked again he was assailed by that strange sense of littleness, of shrunkenness, which had struck him so forcibly at the station.