All at once the anger ran out of John Harkless; he was a hard man for
anger to tarry with. And in place of it a strong sense of home-coming
began to take possession of him. He was going home. "Back to Plattville,
where I belong," he had said; and he said it again without bitterness, for
it was the truth. "Every man cometh to his own place in the end."

Yes, as one leaves a gay acquaintance of the playhouse lobby for some
hard-handed, tried old friend, so he would wave the outer world God-speed
and come back to the old ways of Carlow. What though the years were dusty,
he had his friends and his memories and his old black brier pipe. He had a
girl's picture that he should carry in his heart till his last day; and if
his life was sadder, it was infinitely richer for it. His winter fireside
should be not so lonely for her sake; and losing her, he lost not
everything, for he had the rare blessing of having known her. And what man
could wish to be healed of such a hurt? Far better to have had it than to
trot a smug pace unscathed.

He had been a dullard; he had lain prostrate in the wretchedness of his
loss. "A girl you could put in your hat--and there you have a strong man
prone." He had been a sluggard, weary of himself, unfit to fight, a
failure in life and a failure in love. That was ended; he was tired of
failing, and it was time to succeed for a while. To accept the worst that
Fate can deal, and to wring courage from it instead of despair, that is
success; and it was the success that he would have. He would take Fate by
the neck. But had it done him unkindness? He looked out over the
beautiful, "monotonous" landscape, and he answered heartily, "No!" There
was ignorance in man, but no unkindness; were man utterly wise he were
utterly kind. The Cross-Roaders had not known better; that was all.

The unfolding aisles of corn swam pleasantly before John's eyes. The earth