The sky was heavy with menacing clouds, and wind—howling dismally as it blew through the trees—when I met a wayfarer who was walking, with downcast eyes, along the highway which skirted the town.

Gazing at him sharply, I met a furtive glance, which held within it pleading, and yet had an assurance which was compelling. He hesitated when we came abreast, and as I felt in the mood for converse, I bade him “Good-evening.”

“It is a good evening, is it not,” he replied. “Good, in its freedom of elements. They make merry tonight.”

This was a strange answer, and my curiosity was piqued, and I felt constrained to lead him on further.

“You feel the elements are enjoying themselves?” I asked.

“Thoroughly,” he answered, “but one never knows what their decision will be.”

“Decision! What do you mean?”

“Whether they will be content with a simple little frolic or if they have mischief in their minds,” he answered.

“Mischief! in their minds! Surely that is a strange expression to use regarding the wind and clouds.”

“Strange? You, too, find it strange?”

As he spoke he looked at, and yet again, not at me, but through me, and then continued:

“To me there is nothing in all the Universe without mind. All is alive and all make merry or are sad—bring joy or sorrow, as their bent may be. Just as man can be kind, or cruel, make beautiful the world or destroy, so do the Beings dwelling in the elements.

“Tonight they will tell me whether I make merry or pass out in sorrow.”

“That is a strange thing you say! ‘Make merry or pass out in sorrow.’ What does that portend?” I questioned.

“Sir,” he answered, “you do not understand, and yet you look to me as one of us.

“Tonight I am going home and I have not yet made the necessary decision as to my going—whether it shall be a right merry leave-taking or one of sadness. Today a winged messenger came and told me my exile was ended and I could start for my home tonight.”

“And where is your home?” I asked.

“That is for me to decide.”

“For you to decide! Is it not where you lived last?” I asked.

“Alas! no. I have lost that beautiful place, but there are others for me to choose from. Or, perhaps, I shall elect to remain here a little longer—I have left so much undone. I find so many words unspoken which would have given joy, perhaps,—so many things postponed. I did not give heed to the passing of hours for I felt years were before me. But the summons has come and I am to go home—to go to the house I have been building.”

His eyes were fixed on the horizon and my gaze followed him, for so intent was he that I felt there was some thing there I could see. Then, suddenly, the wind swept past us with a mighty gust. The trees bent beneath its force, and, with a sudden upflinging of his head he turned toward me, and said, pointing to the horizon:

“See! There is my road and just at the end of the lane my home. Yes! after all, it will be good to go back. The weeds are in the garden and it seems neglected, for no love has entered into the care of it; but there are blossoms among the grass which has overgrown the doorstep, and I can make it beautiful, after all. Just a little care, a bit of love, and time spent in taking out the nettles, and—yes, it can be made a home. See! there are children down the street. I can build swings and make toys for their playthings, and it can be a merry place.”

Watching him with amazement, I moved along at his side, speaking no word, until we came to a little shanty all by itself, on the dreariest part of the bluff. It was forbidding, and I remembered it was the place of the old miser and renegade of the town. As we reached the door a sudden noise within made me pause, and I pushed open the rickety door. From a corner of the hut came a voice:

“So you have come at last! I have just been waiting until you reached me, for I am going home. Going home to just a little place like this, but it has flowers in its yard and there are children who need me.”

There came a sudden terrific whirl of wind and dust—the door slammed to and my knees shook,—for I was alone—no soul in sight, no habitation—only scurrying clouds and trees bending under the blast, while above me floated down a voice:

“I am going home! Are you ready? Make ready! for soon you, too, will be

GOING HOME