After a lapse of four years, during which he had as completely vanished out of the memory of Stillwater as if he had been lying all the while in the crowded family tomb behind the South Church, Richard Shackford reappeared one summer morning at the door of his cousin’s house in Welch’s Court.  Mr. Shackford was absent at the moment, and Mrs. Morganson, an elderly deaf woman, who came in for a few hours every day to do the house-work, was busy in the extension.  Without announcing himself, Richard stalked up-stairs to the chamber in the gable, and went directly to a little shelf in one corner, upon which lay the dog’s-eared copy of Robinson Crusoe just as he had left it, save the four years’ accumulation of dust.  Richard took the book fiercely in both hands, and with a single mighty tug tore it from top to bottom, and threw the fragments into the fire-place.

A moment later, on the way down-stairs, he encountered his kinsman ascending.

“Ah, you have come back!” was Mr. Shackford’s grim greeting after a moment’s hesitation.

“Yes,” said Richard, with embarrassment, though he had made up his mind not to be embarrassed by his cousin.

“I can’t say I was looking for you.  You might have dropped me a line; you were politer when you left.  Why do you come back, and why did you go away?” demanded the old man, with abrupt fierceness.  The last four years had bleached him and bent him and made him look very old.

“I didn’t like the idea of Blandmann & Sharpe, for one thing,” said Richard, “and I thought I liked the sea.”

“And did you?”

“No, sir!  I enjoyed seeing foreign parts, and all that.”

“Quite the young gentleman on his travels.  But the sea didn’t agree with you, and now you like the idea of Blandmann & Sharpe?”

“Not the least in the world, I assure you!” cried Richard.  “I take to it as little as ever I did.”

“Perhaps that is fortunate.  But it’s going to be rather difficult to suit your tastes.  What do you like?”

“I like you, cousin Lemuel; you have always been kind to me—­in your way,” said poor Richard, yearning for a glimmer of human warmth and sympathy, and forgetting all the dreariness of his uncared-for childhood.  He had been out in the world, and had found it even harder-hearted than his own home, which now he idealized in the first flush of returning to it.  Again he saw himself, a blond-headed little fellow with stocking down at heel, climbing the steep staircase, or digging in the clay at the front gate with the air full of the breath of lilacs.  That same penetrating perfume, blown through the open hall-door as he spoke, nearly brought the tears to his eyes.  He had looked forward for years to this coming back to Stillwater.  Many a time, as he wandered along the streets of some foreign sea-port, the rich architecture and the bright costumes had faded out before him, and given place to the fat gray belfry and slim red chimneys of the humble New England village where he was born.  He had learned to love it after losing it; and now he had struggled back through countless trials and disasters to find no welcome.