This last incident
showed him plainly that his father was putting him to a severe test of
some sort, and he could have no doubt that it was for a purpose. His
father was the kind of man who does things with a very definite purpose
indeed. Cyrus looked back over the day with an anxious searching of his
memory to be sure that no detail of the singular service required of
him had been slighted.
As he once more ascended the steps of his own home, he was so confident
that his labours were now ended that he almost forgot about "Env. No.
20" which he had been directed to read in the vestibule before entering
the house. With his thumb on the bell-button he recollected, and with a
sigh broke open the final seal:
Turn about and go to Lenox Street Station, B---- Railroad,
reaching there by 8.05. Wait for messenger in west end of
station, by telegraph office. C. W., Jr.
It was a blow, but Cyrus had his second wind now. He felt like a
machine--a hollow one--which could keep on going indefinitely.
"I know how an automobile feels," he said to himself, "rolling about
from one place to another--never knowing where it's due next--always
waiting outside--never getting fed.
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