The dog looked up with wistful inquiry at his master, who cocked an eyebrow at him in return, wearing much the same expression.  The mother and child disappeared within the church doors and left the Square to the two.  Even the hotel showed no signs of life, for the wise men were not allowed to foregather on Sundays.  The organ had ceased to stir the air and all was in quiet, yet a quiet which, for Louden, was not peace.  He looked at his watch and, without intending it, spoke the hour aloud:  “A quarter past eleven.”  The sound of his own voice gave him a little shock; he rose without knowing why, and, as he did so, it seemed to him that he heard close to his ear another voice, a woman’s, troubled and insistent, but clear and sweet, saying: 

“Remember!  Across main street bridge at noon!”

It was so distinct that he started and looked round.  Then he laughed.  “I’ll be seeing circus parades next!” His laughter fled, for, louder than the ringing in his ears, unmistakably came the strains of a far-away brass band which had no existence on land or sea or in the waters under the earth.

“Here!” he said to the mongrel.  “We need a walk, I think.  Let’s you and me move on before the camels turn the corner!”

The music followed him to the street, where he turned westward toward the river, and presently, as he walked on, fanning himself with his straw hat, it faded and was gone.  But the voice he had heard returned.

“Remember!  Across main street bridge at noon!” it said again, close to his ear.

This time he did not start.  “All right,” he answered, wiping his forehead; “if you’ll let me alone, I’ll be there.”

At a dingy saloon corner, near the river, a shabby little man greeted him heartily and petted the mongrel.  “I’m mighty glad you didn’t go, after all, Joe,” he added, with a brightening face.

“Go where, Happy?”

Mr. Fear looked grave.  “Don’t you rec’lect meetin’ me last night?”

Louden shook his head.  “No.  Did I?”

The other’s jaw fell and his brow corrugated with self-reproach.  “Well, if that don’t show what a thick-head I am!  I thought ye was all right er I’d gone on with ye.  Nobody c’d ‘a’ walked straighter ner talked straighter.  Said ye was goin’ to leave Canaan fer good and didn’t want nobody to know it.  Said ye was goin’ to take the ’leven-o’clock through train fer the West, and told me I couldn’t come to the deepo with ye.  Said ye’d had enough o’ Canaan, and of everything!  I follered ye part way to the deepo, but ye turned and made a motion fer me to go back, and I done it, because ye seemed to be kind of in trouble, and I thought ye’d ruther be by yerself.  Well, sir, it’s one on me!”

“Not at all,” said Joe.  “I was all right.”

“Was ye?” returned the other.  “Do remember, do ye?”