bows his head so low that he cannot see his horses. The patient

beasts, however, plod along the miry road, unerringly taking their course to

the distant stable door. The highway sometimes passes through a grove on the

edge of a forest, and the trees creak and groan as they writhe in the heavy

blasts. In occasional groups of pines there is sighing and moaning almost

human in suggestiveness of trouble. Never had Nature been in a more dismal

mood, never had she been more prodigal of every element of discomfort, and

never had the hero of my story been more cast down in heart and hope than on

this chaotic day which, even to his dull fancy, appeared closing in harmony

with his feelings and fortune. He is going home, yet the thought brings no

assurance of welcome and comfort. As he cowers upon the seat of his market.....READ FULL STORY