"That's it exactly--at the turn in the road--when you can't see home
any more--when you'd give all the world to turn back, but dare not."
Tim had faced about and was looking over the valley as we climbed the
long slope of the ridge. "It's just like being torn in two, isn't it?"
he said.
"Naturally," said I. "Home and home people are as much a part of you
as head and limbs. When I dragged you away, binding you here in the
buggy with your tin trunk and your ambition, something had to snap."
"And it snapped at the bend," Tim said grimly; "when I saw the last of
the house and the rambo tree at the end of the orchard."
My brother took to whistling. He started away bravely with a
rollicking air, keeping time to the creaking of the buggy and the slow
crunching of the horse's feet on the gravel road. Even that failed
him. We were at the crest of the hill; we were turning another bend;
we were in the woods, and through the trees he had a last look at Black
Log. And it's such a little valley, too, that it would hardly seem
worth looking back on when the rich fields of Kishikoquillas roll away
before one! The lone pine on the stone cap of Gander Knob waved its
farewell, and we clattered down the long slope into the great world.
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