Winter Evening Tales

     “—­and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”  James i.
     15.

Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable moments when she appears to be asleep—­when the stars, large and white, bend stilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or flower.  On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandah smoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnolia flowers above her, mused the hour away beside him.  There were little ebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of their quarters, but they also were singularly quiet.  An angel of silence had passed by no one was inclined to disturb the tranquil calm of the dreaming earth.

There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve.  In ten days the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son in the path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed does grow.  This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longing for David’s return, and forming plans through which the future might atone for the past.  Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins, rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamless sleep which is the compensation of hard labor.  Only Lulu watched and thought with him.

Suddenly she stood up and listened.  There was a footstep in the avenue, and she knew it.  But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrow was there in it?

“That is David’s step, uncle; but what is the matter?  Is he sick?”

Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, and the shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him.  Lulu went to the top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands to greet him.  He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, and stood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father.

In a moment all the new tenderness was gone.

In a voice stern and scornful he asked, “Well, sir, what is the matter?  What hae ye been doing now?”

“I have shot Whaley!”

The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctly audible.  The father rose and faced his wretched son.

Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, “Dead?”

“Dead!”

“But you had a good reason, David; I know you had.  He would have shot you?—­it was in self-defence?—­it was an accident?  Speak, dear!”

“He called me a coward, and—­”

“You shot him!  Then you are a coward, sir!” said Lorimer, sternly; “and having made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward to come here and force upon me the duty of arresting you.  Put down your rifle, sir!”

Lulu uttered a long low wail.  “Oh, David, my love! why did you come here?  Did you hope for pity or help in his heart?  And what can I do Davie, but suffer with you?” But she drew his face down and kissed it with a solemn tenderness that taught the wretched man, in one moment, all the blessedness of a woman’s devotion, and all the misery that the indulgence of his ungovernable temper had caused him.

“We will hae no more heroics, Lulu.  As a magistrate and a citizen it is my duty to arrest a murderer on his ain confession.”

“Your duty!” she answered, in a passion of scorn.  “Had you done your duty to David in the past years, this duty would not have been to do.  Your duty or anything belonging to yourself, has always been your sole care.  Wrong Davie, wrong me, slay love outright, but do your duty, and stand well with the world and yourself!  Uncle, you are a dreadful Christian!”

“How dare you judge me, Lulu?  Go to your own room at once!”

“David, dearest, farewell!  Fly!—­you will get no pity here.  Fly!”

“Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to move!”

“I am hungry, thirsty, weary and wretched, and at your mercy, father.  Do as you will with me.”  And he laid his rifle upon the table.

Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure that almost fell into the chair beside him, and his first feeling was one of mingled scorn and pity.

“How did it happen?  Tell me the truth.  I want neither excuses nor deceptions.”

“I have no desire to make them.  There was a ‘run,’ just as my time was out.  Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me to help turn the leaders.  I did not move.  He called me a coward, and taunted me with my Spanish blood—­it was my dear mother’s.”

“That is it,” answered Lorimer, with an anger all the more terrible for its restraint; “it is the Spanish blood wi’ its gasconade and foolish pride.”

“Father!  You have a right to give me up to the hangman; but you have no right to insult me.”

The next moment he fell senseless at his father’s feet.  It was the collapse of consciousness under excessive physical exhaustion and mental anguish; but Lorimer, who had never seen a man in such extremity, believed it to be death.  A tumult of emotions rushed over him, but assistance was evidently the first duty, and he hastened for it.  First he sent the housekeeper Cassie to her young master, then he went to the quarters to arouse Plato.

When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were kneeling beside the unconscious youth.  “You have murdered him!” said Lulu, bitterly; and for a moment he felt something of the remorseful agony which had driven the criminal at his feet into a short oblivion.  But very soon there was a slight reaction, and the father was the first to see it.  “He has only fainted; bring some wine here!” Then he remembered the weakness of the voice which had said, “I am hungry, and thirsty, and weary and wretched.”

When David opened his eyes again his first glance was at his father.  There was something in that look that smote the angry man to his heart of hearts.  He turned away, motioning Plato to follow him.  But even when he had reached his own room and shut his door, he could not free himself from the influence evoked by that look of sorrowful reproach.

Plato stood just within the door, nervously dangling his straw hat.  He was evidently balancing some question in his own mind, and the uncertainty gave a queer restlessness to every part of his body.

“Plato, you are to watch the young man down-stairs; he is not to be allowed to leave the house.”

“Yes, sar.”

“He has committed a great crime, and he must abide the consequences.”

No answer.

“You understand that, Plato?”

“Dunno, sar.  I mighty sinful ole man myself.  Dunno bout de consequences.”

“Go, and do as I bid you!”

When he was alone he rose slowly and locked his door.  He wanted to do right, but he was like a man in the fury and darkness of a great tempest:  he could not see any road at all.  There was a Bible on his dressing-table, and he opened it; but the verses mingled together, and the sense of everything seemed to escape him.  The hand of the Great Father was stretched out to him in the dark, but he could not find it.  He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay a wish that David would escape from justice.  He knew that a selfish shame about his own fair character mingled with his father’s love; his motives and feelings were so mixed that he did not dare to bring them, in their pure truthfulness, to the feet of God; for as yet he did not understand that “like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;” he thought of the Divine Being as one so jealous for His own rights and honor that He would have the human heart a void, so that he might reign there supremely.  So all that terrible night he stood smitten and astonished on a threshold he could not pass.

In another room the question was being in a measure solved for him.  Cassie brought in meat and bread and wine, and David ate, and felt refreshed.  Then the love of life returned, and the terror of a shameful death; and he laid his hand upon his rifle and looked round to see what chance of escape his father had left him.  Plato stood at the door, Lulu sat by his side, holding his hand.  On her face there was an expression of suffering, at once defiant and despairing—­a barren suffering, without hope.  They had come to that turn on their unhappy road when they had to bid each other “Farewell!” It was done very sadly, and with few words.

“You must go now, beloved.”

He held her close to his heart and kissed her solemnly and silently.  The next moment she turned on him from the open door a white, anguished face.  Then he was alone with Plato.

“Plato, I must go now.  Will you saddle the brown mare for me?”

“She am waiting, Massa David.  I tole Cassie to get her ready, and some bread and meat, and dis, Massa Davie, if you’ll ’blige ole Plato.”  Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of his lifetime.

“How much is there, Plato?”

“Four hundred dollars, sar.  Sorry it am so little.”

“It was for your freedom, Plato.”

“I done gib dat up, Massa Davie.  I’se too ole now to git de rest.  Ef you git free, dat is all I want.”

They went quietly out together.  It was not long after midnight.  The brown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood beside her with a small bag, holding a change of linen and some cooked food.  The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him, and then rode away into the darkness.  He went softly at first, but when he reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terror and his mental suffering.

Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable black spot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins.  They had seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household; they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other.  Both were also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; for James Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he would hardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience.

Early in the morning Plato was called by his master.  There was little trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed.  He was one of those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain.

“Tell Master David to come here.”

“Massa David, sar!  Massa David done gone sar!” The old man’s lips were trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over.  He looked his master calmly in the face.

“Did I not tell you to stop him?”

“Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He’ll send the messenger—­Plato could not do it!”

“How did he go?”

“On de little brown mare—­his own horse done broke all up.”

“How much money did you give him?”

“Money, sar?”

“How much?  Tell the truth.”

“Four hundred dollars.”

“That will do.  Tell Cassie I want my breakfast.”

At breakfast he glanced at Lulu’s empty chair, but said nothing.  In the house all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its threshold and left a stain upon its hearthstone.  The churning and cleaning was going on as usual.  Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and motionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool and pretty for grief to enter.  The unhappy father sat still all day, pondering many things that he had not before thought of.  Every footfall made his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no further bad news.

On the second day he went into Lulu’s room, hoping to say a word of comfort to her.  She listened apathetically, and turned her face to the wall with a great sob.  He began to feel some irritation in the atmosphere of misery which surrounded him.  It was very hard to be made so wretched for another’s sin.  The thought in an instant became a reproach.  Was he altogether innocent?  The second and third days passed; he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond the probability of pursuit.

On the fourth day he went to the cotton field.  He visited the overseer’s house, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates.  He tried to forget that something had happened which made life appear a different thing.  In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home.  The negroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing their last basket of cotton—­all of them silent, depressed with their weariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of the autumn twilight.

Lorimer did not care to pass them.  He saw them, one by one, leave their cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins.  Then he rode slowly up to his own door.  A man sat on the verandah smoking.  At the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep.

“Good evening.”  He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, but he could not do it; and the visitor’s attitude was not encouraging.

“Good evening, Lorimer.  I’m right sorry to tell you that you will be wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning.”

He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his soul was heavy.  He only drew a chair forward and sat down.

“Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for.  I brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands’ this afternoon.  Perhaps he can make it out a case of ’justifiable homicide’—­hope he can.  He’s about as likely a young man as I ever saw.”

Still no answer.

“Well, Lorimer, I think you’re right.  Talking won’t help things, and may make them a sight worse.  You’ll be over to Judge Lepperts’ in the morning?—­say about ten o’clock.”

“Yes.  Will you have some supper?”

“No; this is not hungry work.  My pipe is more satisfactory under the circumstances.  I’ll have to saddle up, too.  There’s others to see yet.  Is there any one particular you’d like on the jury?”

“No.  You must do your duty, Sheriff.”

He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his hands in a maze of anguish.  David at Sheriff Gillelands’!  David to be tried for murder in the morning!  What could he do?  If David had not confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his evidence?  Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him.

At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon the course he ought to take.  The sheriff’s was only about three miles distant.  He rode over there at once.  His son, with travel-stained clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter.  His heart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour, by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself.  Instead of saying, “My dear, dear lad!” the lament which was in his heart, he said, “So this is the end of it, David?”

“Yes.  It is the end.”

“You ought not to have run away.”

“No.  I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would have put you all right.”

“I wasna thinking o’ that.  A man flying from justice is condemned by the act.”

“It would have made no matter.  There is only one verdict and one end possible.”

“Have you then confessed the murder?”

He awaited the answer in an agony.  It came with a terrible distinctness.  “Whaley lived thirty hours.  He told.  His brother-in-law has gone on with the cattle.  Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses.  They are in the house.”

“But you have not yourself confessed?”

“Yes.  I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man.  If I had not done so you would; I knew that.  I have at least spared you the pain and shame of denouncing your own son!”

“Oh, David, David!  I would not.  My dear lad, I would not!  I would hae gane to the end o’ the world first.  Why didna you trust me?”

“How could I, father?”

He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands.  After a pause, he said, “Poor Lulu!  Don’t tell her if you can help it, until—­all is over.  How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!”

The wretched father could endure the scene no longer.  He went into the outer room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son.  The sheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion of David’s chances.  But he was obliged to point out that they were extremely small.  The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; their sympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken the discipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across the continent.  In the moment of extremest danger, David had not only refused assistance, but had shot his employer.

“He called him a coward, and you’ll admit that’s a vera aggravating name.”

The sheriff readily admitted that under any ordinary circumstances in Texas that epithet would justify a murder; “but,” he added, “most any Texan would say he was a coward to stand still and see eight thousand head of cattle on the stampede.  You’ll excuse me, Lorimer, I’d say so myself.”

He went home again and shut himself in his room to think.  But after many hours, he was just as far as ever from any coherent decision.  Justice!  Justice!  Justice!  The whole current of his spiritual and mental constitution ran that road.  Blood for blood; a life for a life; it was meet and right, and he acknowledged it with bleeding heart and streaming eyes.  But, clear and distinct above the tumult of this current, he heard something which made him cry out with an equally unhappy father of old, “Oh, Absalom!  My son, my son Absalom!”

Then came the accuser and boldly told him that he had neglected his duty, and driven his son into the way of sin and death; and that the seeds sown in domestic bickering and unkindness had only brought forth their natural fruit.  The scales fell from his eyes; all the past became clear to him.  His own righteousness was dreadful in his sight.  He cried out with his whole soul, “God be merciful!  God be merciful!”

The darkest despairs are the most silent.  All the night long he was only able to utter that one heartbroken cry for pity and help.  At the earliest daylight he was with his son.  He was amazed to find him calm, almost cheerful.  “The worst is over father,” he said.  “I have done a great wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the punishment, and am willing to suffer it.”

“But after death!  Oh, David, David—­afterward!”

“I shall dare to hope—­for Christ also has died, the just for the unjust.”

Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of that eternity whose shores his feet were touching.  At this hour he would shirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope.  And David listened; for this side of his father’s character he had always had great respect, and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the least part of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divine vengeance which he could never fly from.  But there had been One with him that night, One who is not very far from us at any time; and though David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost feared to accept its comfort, he was in those desperate circumstances when men cannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but to believe.

“Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin, there is nae doubt o’ that.”

“But God’s mercy, I trust, is greater.”

“And you hae nothing to bring him from a’ the years o’ your life!  Oh, David, David!”

“I know,” he answered sadly.  “But neither had the dying thief.  He only believed.  Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now.  Don’t take it from me.”

Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must pray when they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows.  At noon the twelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court was opened.  David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the long irritation and the final taunt which had produced it.  The testimony of the returned drovers supplemented the tragedy.  If there was any excuse to be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and the scornful mention of his mother’s race.

There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first.  The elder Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular man.  David’s proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies; and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had honestly expressed himself regarding David’s conduct at the moment of the stampede.  It touched all their prejudices and their interests very nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative moment.

As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans.  There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches itself to a race that has been subjugated.  Long before the form of a trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had accepted his fate.  Not so his father.  He pleaded with all his soul for his son’s life.  But he touched no heart there.  The jury had decided on the death-sentence before they left their seats.

And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying it out.  It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for any length of time.  David was to die at sunset.

Three hours yet remained to the miserable father.  He threw aside all pride and all restraint.  Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart.  But these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had.  What confessions of mutual faults were made!  What kisses and forgivenesses were exchanged!  At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other.  Sometimes the Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed.  They are of those royal compassions which astonish even the angels.

When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his father.  “It is my last request,” he said, looking into his face with eyes whose entreaty was pathetic.  “You must grant it, father, hard as it is.”

Lorimer’s hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale as ashes when he read the contents.

“I canna, I canna do it,” he whispered.

“Yes, you will, father.  It is the last favor I shall ask of you.”

The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared to voice it.  It was this—­

“Father, be my executioner.  Do not let me be hung.  The rope is all I dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life.”

For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone.  Then he rose and went to the jury.  They were sitting together under some mulberry trees, smoking.  Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their verdict.  Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty.

Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son’s request.  He pleaded, “That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim.”

But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he must oppose such a request.  It was the rope, he thought, made the punishment.  He hoped no Texan feared a bullet.  A clean, honorable death like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood.  Every rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they were given a precedent.  And arguments that would have been essentially false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one.  The men gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further pleading was in vain.  Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request would be granted.

Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room.  He took the prisoner’s arm and walked quietly out with him.  There was a coil of rope on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned with one of singular steadiness.  When they reached the little grove of mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose.  There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the party walked.

Here David was asked “if he was guilty?” and he acknowledged the sin:  and when further asked “if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and deserved death?” he answered, “that he was quite satisfied, and was willing to pay the penalty of his crime.”

Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father!  His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of exultation.  At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a touching and not ignoble pathos.  Involuntarily they told of the weary days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless.

Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though silent motion of assent.  Every man bared his head, while the wretched father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful hour were his own strength and comfort.  This service occupied but a few minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the branches above.  David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood.

The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which covered the strong, pillar-like throat.  In that moment David sought his father’s eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called “Father! Now!” As the words reached the father’s ears, the bullet reached the son’s heart.  He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him.  It was the father’s groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of suffering about him which no one thought of resisting.

He walked to his child’s side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born.  They were all fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him.  Silently they untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of dissent.  If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care of man’s approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is indifferent to all outside itself.

When he lifted his head he was alone.  The sheriff was waiting at the house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping.  He motioned to him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a companion and a rude bier.  They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead.  He took him up to his own room and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side.  The dead opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw all that he had been blind to for so many years.  Then he understood what it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing repentance.

In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded.  But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy.  Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants’ faces and words.  She was quite aware what was in her uncle’s lonely room.  Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she came to the door.  For the first time in his life he called her “My daughter,” and stooped and kissed her.  He had a letter for her—­David’s dying message of love.  He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the dead.

At sunrise a funeral took place.  In that climate the necessity was an urgent one.  Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing in the cypress swamp.  It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the slain youth.  She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, more pitiful than the most frantic grief.  Lorimer took her on his arm, the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind them.  The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth.

When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air with lamentation.  But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word.  The girl was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle’s unusual tenderness.  Evidently she had not forgiven him.  And as the winter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own consciousness.  Lorimer seldom saw her.  She was soon very ill, and kept her room entirely.  He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, she died.

One night she sent for him.  “Uncle,” she said, “I am going away very soon, now.  If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me.  And I want your promise about my sister’s children; will you give me it?”

He winced visibly, and remained silent.

“There are six boys and two girls—­they are poor, ignorant and unhappy.  They are under very bad influences.  For David’s sake and my sake you must see that they are brought up right.  There need be no mistakes this time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight.  You will do it, uncle?”

“I will do my best, dear.”

“I know you will.  Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once.  You will need company soon.”

“Do you think you are dying, dear?”

“I know I am dying.”

“And how is a’ wi’ you anent what is beyond death?”

She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and then closed her eyes wearily.  She appeared so exhausted that he could press the question no further.  And the next morning she had “gone away”—­gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting by her side, knew not when she departed.  He went and looked at her.  The fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been too sore a burden for her.  His anguish was great, but it was God’s doing.  What was there for him to say?

The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept—­not very cheerfully at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he persevered, and the reward came.  The children grew and prospered; they loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave them his own name, and suffered them to call him father.

As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no sign.  Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and that He who could say, “Let there be light,” could also say, “Thy sins be forgiven thee;” and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come to the holy land:  for—­

    “Down in the valley of death
      A cross is standing plain;
    Where strange and awful the shadows sleep,
      And the ground has a deep red stain. 
    This cross uplifted there
      Forbids, with voice Divine,
    Our anguished hearts to break for the dead
      Who have died and made no sign. 
    As they turned at length from us,
      Dear eyes that were heavy and dim,
    May have met his look, who was lifted there,
      May be sleeping safe in Him.”