CHAPTER XI 

 THE LITTLE TOWN ON THE HILL 



IT WAS many years ago that I first alighted from 

 the train at a station bearing the Biblical name of 

 Zoar, and, after the train had disappeared up the 

 winding track, felt my tortured ears suddenly soothed 

 with the sweet silence, my lungs with the keen air. 

 Just below the track the rapid brown Deerfield River 

 ran whispering over stones. Opposite the tiny station, 

 across the highway, were two or three houses. Be- 

 hind them leapt up the wooded walls of the gorge, 

 reproduced on the opposite side of the river. Looking 

 up stream or down, I could see great wooded headlands 

 jutting out a wild and picturesque canon. After the 

 dust and smell of the train, the faint odour of the rapid 

 water was cool and agreeable. I drew a deep breath 

 before turning to find the stage driver who would take 

 me from Zoar up the walls of the gorge to the little 

 village on the hills above. 



It was not difficult to find hjm, as he was the only 

 person on the platform besides myself and the station 

 agent. Conversely, I was his only passenger. In 

 addition to me and my luggage his load consisted of 



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