CHAPTER XXVI.

"Where He leads me I will follow,I'll go with Him all the way."

All the way? Ah, he was beginning to know what that meant! Then there came that other verse—how it soothed his troubled heart!

"He will give me grace and glory,And go with me all the way."

Just then the sun stole in at the little cell window, and the perpendicular and horizontal bars made the shadow of a cross on the floor, all surrounded by a flood of light. A great peace came into Job Malden's heart, as the Master whispered, "I will never leave thee nor forsake thee."

All Gold City was stirred to its depths. Nothing had happened in forty years to so move the hearts of men. Business was forgotten, groups of men met and talked long on the street corners, the mining camp was deserted. There was but one theme—the tragedy of Inspiration Point. Up at the Yellow Jacket a great shadow rested over office, church and the miners' shanties. On the lowest levels of the mines, grimy men looked into each other's faces and talked in an undertone of the awful fear which they would not have the rocks and the secret places of the earth know; that "the parson" was in a murderer's cell, and the storm clouds were gathering fast about him, and the worst was, he was guilty—it must be so!

The superintendent drove his team on a run to the court house, and offered any amount of bail. This was refused, and he was denied even a look at Job. Up at the ranch, Andrew Malden neither ate nor slept. A terrible nightmare hung over him. His boy was innocent, of course he was. But oh, it was awful! The saloons were crowded, and a furtive chuckle passed around the bars. He was caged now, the one they hated, and the evil element were in high glee. O'Donnell and Dan Dean, Col. Dick and the sheriff, were the center of crowds who hung on their words, as they told the story of the crime over and over with a new force and new aspect that showed the utter hypocrisy, treachery and sin of Job.

The church was crowded. The preacher could not believe Job guilty, but he dared not say so. Tom Reed, wild with grief, pleaded with men to break open the jail and let him slay the murderer, slay him and avenge his Jane—his black-eyed, great-hearted Jane. The city reporters were busy, and the papers glowed with accounts and photographs of "the awful wretch who was safely held behind the bars of the Gold City jail." So the storm surged to and fro, so the days passed, to that dark ninth of August when the trial was to begin.

Of all the throng of men in the mountains in those days, he alone who sat in the silence of a dungeon in the old court house, was unmoved and at peace. Through the long hours he sat recalling memories of past years, living again the scenes of yesterday, which seemed to belong to another world and another life now gone forever. From his pocket he drew again and again the little Testament still fragrant with a mother's dying kiss, and felt himself as much a homeless, motherless boy as upon that long-ago night when he first saw Gold City and fell asleep on the "Palace" doorsteps. He read it over and over. It was of Gethsemane, the Last Supper and Calvary he read most. He knew now what they meant. Then he turned to the words, "What shall separate us from the love of God?" and the consciousness that God was left, that Jesus was his, was like a mighty arm bearing him up.

They asked him for his defense. He said he had none, except the fact that he knew nothing about the deed. They scorned that, and asked whom he wished for a lawyer. He had no choice—cared for none. The judge sent him a young infidel attorney, the sheriff refused him the privilege of seeing anyone, the iron gate was double-barred, and closer and closer the web of evidence was drawn about him ready for the day of the trial.

He asked for Andrew Malden, but was refused. He begged them to send for Indian Bill; they made a pretense of doing so, but the trapper was far from human reach, far up in the wilderness beyond El Capitan. All Job could do was to pray and wait, little caring what the outcome might be, little caring what might be the verdict of the world of Gold City; knowing only two things—that Jane was dead and life could never be the same to him; and that the God who looked down in tender compassion on his child shut in between those dark stone walls, knew all about it. Job had read how one like unto an angel walked in the furnace of old with God's saints; he felt, now, that the Christ came and sat by his side in those lonely prison hours.

It was Monday, the ninth of August. The sun's rays beat down on the dusty streets of Gold City and glared from the white walls of the court house. At ten o'clock the trial would commence—the great trial of "The State vs. Job Teale Malden." The streets were thronged with vehicles; it was like one of the old-time Sunday picnics, only saint as well as sinner was here. The Yellow Jacket had closed down by common consent of all, and hundreds of workingmen were pouring into town in stages and buckboards, on horseback and on foot. The old court house was packed to its utmost capacity; the gallery and stairs were one mass of writhing humanity. Outside, they stood like a great encampment, stretching away, filling the whole square. Still they came from Mormon Bar and Wawona—the greatest throng in the history of Grizzly county; men, women, and children in arms—all to see Job Malden tried for his life.

Through this crowd, Andrew Malden, leaning on his cane, passed in at the great door by Tony's side. The crowd was silent as he passed. Some muttered under their breath; some lifted their hats. That worn, gaunt face startled them all. It was through this same crowd that Tom Reed, with darkened brow, and Dan Dean, limping on his crutches, passed in together.

The clock in the tower struck ten. Job in his cell heard it above the din of innumerable feet passing over his head; heard it and knelt in an earnest prayer for grace to bear whatever might come; to suffer and be still as his Master did of old. He had gone all over it again and again; they knew his story of the walk down the cañon trail with Indian Bill, but even the lawyer doubted it. If they knew of Glacier Point and the betrothal, they might believe him. Should he tell it? All night he had paced the cell wondering if he ought—if he could. As he knelt in that hour, he resolved that, though it would save his life, no human ear should ever hear that sacred secret. That hour on Glacier Point should be unveiled to no human eye, but remain locked in the chambers of his soul, known only to God and her who waited yonder for his coming.

It was near noon when the judge ascended the bench. The hubbub of voices ceased, the case was called, the rear door opened, and, led in by the sheriff, handcuffed and guarded, with calm, white face, yet never faltering in step or look, Job Malden walked across the floor to the prisoner's seat, while the crowd gazed in curiosity, that soon changed to awe and reverence, at that grave face, so deeply marked with scars of grief.

It was a strange scene that met Job's gaze. All the familiar faces were there—Aunty Perkins and Tim's father; Dean and O'Donnell glaring at him; poor old Andrew Malden leaning on his cane; Tony and Hans and Tom Reed and—oh, no! Jane was not there, but gone forever from Gold City and its strange, hard life. A tear stole down the prisoner's cheek—he wiped it away. His enemies saw it and winked. Tim's father saw it and moaned aloud. The clock struck twelve in the high tower, and proceedings began.

It was two days before the trial was well under way. The quibbling of the lawyers, the choosing of a jury, the hearing of thewitnesses who had found the wounded, silent form of Jane Reed on the rocks beneath the famous Point, filled the hours. Morning after morning, the scenes of that first day were repeated in the court room; the great crowds, the intense excitement, the friends and enemies intently listening to every word and watching every movement of the prisoner. And calm and still, with never a sign of fear or shame on his face, Job Malden sat in that court room hour after hour, and One unseen stood at his side.

On the third day the prosecution began to weave its web of circumstantial evidence about Job. How shrewd it was! How carefully each suspicious incident was told and retold! How meanly everything bad in his life was emphasized, everything good forgotten! They brought the tales of long-ago years when he was a mere boy. They proved that the passionate blood of a gambler was in his veins; that his father before him had shot a companion. The story of the horse-race and escapades of the reckless days of old were rehearsed by hosts of witnesses. It was proved, by an intricate line of cross-questions, that once before, on a bitter winter's night, young Malden had pursued this girl and Dan Dean with the avowed intention of harming them. The hot blood came to Job's face—he well remembered that night. Then he seemed to hear the distant voice of Indian Bill saying by the roaring Merced, "Bill forgive Mono Indian;" and, sitting there with this tale pouring into the ears of the throng who looked more and more askance at him, Job said deep in his soul, "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Father, I forgive, I forgive!"

Closer and closer they drew the web. They made Andrew Malden—poor old man!—confess that he had heard Job say, "It was an accident," then showed that he had denied knowing aught of Jane's death until he reached home. Then Tom Reed took the stand. He testified that all Jane's preference was for Dan; that she went to him when he and Job were both so ill; that she wrote to Dan and never wrote to Job. The old man fairly shook with rage as on the witness-stand he took every chance to denounce the "hypocrite and 'ristocrat." Minutely he pictured Job's coming to the valley, the heated arguments he was sure the two had had, and how upon that awful day when Jane left him forever, she had walked away by the side of Job Malden.

Daniel Dean was the next witness. The crowd hung breathless on his words. Stumping up on his crutches, Dan took the chance of a lifetime to vent his hatred of Job. Keen, shrewd, too wise to speak out plainly, but wise enough to know the blighting influence of suggestion, Dan talked, insinuated and lied till the nails were driven one by one into poor Job's heart and the pain was almost more than he could bear. Insidiously, indirectly, he gave them all to understand that Jane Reed loved him and again and again by her actions had shown preference for himself. Then down the aisle he passed, while the crowd looked at him in pity, and Job felt as if he must rise and tell of the night at Glacier Point, must vindicate the memory of Jane Reed. But no! God knew all. Some things are too sacred to tell to any ear but his. He must suffer and be still.

When Job went back to his lonely cell that night a boy was whistling on the street, "I'll go with Him all the way," and Job Malden took up the words and said them with a meaning he had never known before.

On the fourth day the court called for the defense. Curiosity reached its culmination. Men fought for a chance to get within hearing distance. Dan and his comrades sat with an indolent air of satisfaction. Aunty Perkins crowdedclose to the front. Through the door and up to the very railing which enclosed the active participants, Andrew Malden and Tony made their way. There were only four possible points for the defense. First, it might prove Job's changed character; second, that it was Job, not Dan, to whom Jane Reed was betrothed; third, that Job was far away in the Merced Cañon with Indian Bill at the time of the death; fourth, to show by what cause death came to the fated girl.

The last, the defense could not prove; for the third, they had no evidence but the prisoner's own word, and that the court would not accept; the second, not even the lawyer or Andrew Malden knew, and no power on earth could make Job Malden tell it; there was no defense to make except to show the character of Job and plead the fact that circumstantial evidence was not proof of guilt.

He did his best, that bungling young attorney. He tried to take advantage of technicalities, but Job utterly forbade that. If righteousness and God could not clear him, nothing else could. The defense was lame, but it proved that some people believed in Job and loved him. Tim's father told, between his tears, the story of "Tim's praist." Aunty Perkins and the preacher spoke ringing words for him. From the Yellow Jacket men came and defended his noble life. But it all went for naught with that jury. It was facts, not sentiment, they wanted. All this might be true, but if Job Malden had done the awful deed which the evidence went to show, then these things only made his crime the blacker.

The defense finished at noon, and the lawyers began their pleas at one o'clock. They hardly needed to speak—Grizzly county had tried the case and the verdict was in. Yet they spoke. How eloquently the prosecuting attorney showed the influence of heredity—that the evil in the father would show itself some day in the boy! How he pictured the temporary religious change in Job's life, and then his relapse as the old fever came back into his blood! He had relapsed before, they all knew. He did not doubt his temporary goodness; but love is stronger than fear and hatred than integrity, and meeting Jane in the valley had roused all the old passion. Out on the cliff they had walked, they had quarreled, all the old fire of his father had come back—perhaps the boy was not to blame—and, standing there alone with the girl who would not promise to be his wife, in his rage he had struck her, and over the cliff she had gone, down, down, on the cruel rocks, to her death, and he had fled over the mountains till, goaded by conscience, haunted by awful guilt, he had come home and given himself up.

The crowd shuddered as he spoke. Tom Reed fainted, Andrew Malden grew deathly white and raised his wan hand in protest, but still the speaker kept on. Job listened as if it were of another he spoke. He could see it all—how awful it was!—and it was Jane and he had done it! He almost believed he had; that man who stood there, carrying the whole throng with him, made it so clear. The voice ceased. Then Job roused himself. The consciousness that it was all false, terribly false, came over him, and he leaned hard on God.

The attorney for the defense said but a word. For a moment it thrilled the multitude. It was a strange speech. This is what he said: "Your honor and gentlemen of the jury, the only defense I have is the character of the young man. I can say nothing more than you have heard to show how far beneath him is such a crime as this. I know you doubt his word, I know you are against him; but, before these people who know me as an infidel—before God who looks down and knows the hearts of men—I want to say that I believe in Job Malden. What I have seen of him in these awful days has changed my whole life. Henceforth I believe in God."

It was over. The judge was charging the jury, "Bring in a verdict consistent withthe facts, gentlemen; the facts, not sentiment." The sun was setting. The jury retired for the night; they would bring in a verdict in the morning.

But the verdict was in. Even Andrew Malden groaned as he leaned on Tony's arm, "Oh, Tony! Tony! How could he have done it!" As Job turned to go back to his cell, he looked over that great crowd for one face that trusted him, but on each seemed written, "Guilty!" He felt as if the whole world had turned from him and the years had gone for naught. There was no voice to whisper a loving word. "Forsaken! forsaken!" He said it over and over. His head was hot, his pulse was feverish. He longed for the touch of his mother's hand; he was hungry for the sound of Jane's voice; he longed to lay his head on Andrew Malden's knee; but he was alone—Calvary was here. The crucifixion hour had come.

At midnight he awoke. A strong arm seemed to hold him, a voice to say, "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned." It was the Christ. There alone on the summit of the mount of the cross, amid the bitterness of the world, pierced to the heart, crucified in soul, Job Malden stood with his Master.

It was Friday morning. The last day of the trial had come. The hot sun beat down on hundreds pressing their way towards the old court house, too excited to be weary. Never had Gold City known such a day. The court room was crowded two hours before the judge came to the bench. A profound silence filled the place. When Job entered one could have felt the stillness. All knew the verdict—all dreaded to hear it. Dan Dean shrank down behind the post when the jury filed in. Job sat with a far-away look in his eyes. Men, gazing at him, were reminded of pictures of the old saints.

The preliminaries were over, and the foreman of the jury rose to give the verdict. Men held their breath. Women grew pale and trembled. In a clear voice he said it: "Guilty!" For a moment the hush lasted; then Andrew Malden fainted, Tim's father cried, "My God! My God!" a storm of tears swept over the throng, and Job sat motionless, while a look of great peace came into his face and in his soul he murmured, "It is finished!"

But the judge was speaking. He was denying the motion for a new trial; he was asking if the prisoner had aught to say why sentence should not be pronounced against him, when a voice that startled all rang through the great room:

"White man, hear! Bill talk!"

There he stood—from whence he came no one knew—his old gray blanket wrapped about him, his long black hair falling in a mass over his shoulders, the blue overalls still hanging about his great brown feet. With hand outstretched, he stood for a moment in silence, while judge and jury and throng were at his command.

Then he spoke; brief, to the point, fiery, strong. The crowd was spellbound. He carried bench and jury and all with him. He told of the day in Merced Cañon; of the figure on the distant cliff; of the earthquake and Job's fall; how he had seen what he dared not tell the boy—the cliff give way, a white thing go down, down, out of sight. Told of Job's many hours in his tepee, and of how the boy had brought him to the Great Spirit, who took the hate all out of his heart. On he talked, till Job's every statement was corroborated, till a revulsion of feeling swept over the multitude, till they saw it all vividly: that it was the earthquake—it was God, not man, who had called Jane Reed from this world; that the prisoner was as innocent as the baby yonder prattling in its mother's arms.

Dan slunk out of the door, Tom Reed sat in silent awe, Tim's father was in tears, Tony shouted, "Bress de Lawd!" And only Job said never a word, as the judge, disregarding all precedent, dismissed the case. The great trial of "The State vs. Job Malden" was ended.

The leaves on the mountain maples turned early that fall. The touch of bitter frost brought forth their rarest colors. The snowflakes fluttered down before November was past; fluttered down and softly covered the furrows and brown earth with a mantle of white.

So the days of that autumn came to Job Malden. The beauty begotten of pain crept into his face. The mantle of silence and peace hid deep the scars of grief. He never talked of the past—no man ever dared broach it. The children at their play in the twilight stopped and huddled close as they saw a dark form climb the graveyard hill, and wondered who it could be. Yet he did not live apart from the world. Never had Gold City seen more of him; never did children love a playmate so much as he who took them all into his heart. Yet he was not of them—all felt it, all saw it. He was with them, not of them. Up higher in soul he had climbed than the world of Gold City could go. He came down to them often, and unconsciously they poured their sorrows at his feet, and he comforted them; but when he went back into the secret holy place of his soul, no man dared follow.

Up at the old ranch, the gray-haired, feeble owner sat by the fire watching the crackling logs and the flames; sat and thought of the years that were gone. Visions of childhood mingled with visions of heaven; the murmur of voices long silent with the words, as Job read them aloud: "In my Father's house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you." Tony still sang at his chores, Hans was still at the barn, Bess still neighed in the stable, Shot still barked at the door. But the old home could never be quite the same to the brave, manly fellow who strode in and out across its threshold.

It was New Year's Eve. Job sat by the old stone fireplace. The household had gone to rest. The clock was ticking away the moments of the dying year. Outside, the world was still and white. With head in his hands, Job waited for the year to end.

He was ten years older than when it had begun. He was still a boy then in heart and years; now he was well on in manhood. Yosemite, Glacier Point, Gethsemane, Calvary, Jane Reed's grave, were in that year. He longed to hear its death-knell. Yet that year—how much it had meant to his soul! The sanctifying influence of sorrow had softened and purified his life. The abiding Christ was with him; he lived, and yet not he—it was Christ living in him.

He knelt and thanked Him for it all—heights of glory, depths of tribulation; thanked Him for whatsoever Infinite Love had given in the days of that dark, dark year now ending. The clock gave a warning tick—it was going; a moment, and it would be gone forever. Into his heart came a great purpose—the purpose to leave the past with the past, and in the new year go out to a new life—a life of love for all the world, of service for all hearts. Over his soul came a great joy.

The clock struck twelve. Somebody down the hill fired a gun, the dogs barked a welcome—the new year had come. The school-house bell was ringing, and to Job it seemed to say:

"Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring in the Christ that is to be."

The young man rose from his knees. He went and opened the door. The white world flooded with silvery light lay before him. The past was gone. He stood with his faceto the future, to the years unscarred and waiting. Into them he would go to live for others. He closed the doors, brushed back the embers, and crept softly up to his room, singing in a low voice the first song for many months:

"Oh, the good we all may do,While the days are going by."

All day the drums had been beating. All day the tramp of martial feet had been heard along the Gold City streets. The soldiers from Camp Sheridan had marched in line with the local militia, and a few trembling veterans who knew more of real war than either. "Old Glory" on the court house had been at half-mast, the children had scattered flowers on a few flag-marked graves, while faltering voices of age read the Grand Army Ritual. The public exercises in the town square were over.

The sun had set on Decoration Day when Job rode Bess up once more to the old graveyard where Jane lay. Not often did he come here now—he felt that she was up among the stars; it was only the shroud of clay that lay under the sod—yet on this day when love scatters garlands over its dead, he had come to place a wreath of wild-flowers on her grave.

He thought of that night when he had first visited this spot. How far in the past it seemed! He could never forget it, but he could think of it now in quiet of soul, and feel, "He doeth all things well." Reverently he laid the wreath on the grave, knelt in silent prayer, and tarried a moment with bowed head. Memories sweet and tender, memories sad and bitter, came back to him.

Just then he heard a noise, a foot-fall opposite, and looked up to see a tall form supported by a crutch standing with bowed head.

"Why, Dan!" Job said, startled for a moment.

"Job!" answered a trembling voice.

And there they stood, those two men whose lives met in the one under the sod; stood and looked in silence.

At last Dan spoke. But how different his voice sounded! All the scornfulness had gone out of it.

"Job," he said, "Job, I knew you were here. Many a night I have seen you come, have watched you kneeling here, and hated you for it—yet loved you for it. I knew you would come again to-night. I came to stand beneath that old pine yonder, and watched you lay the wreath on the grave. I could stand it no longer. I have come, Job—I have come—" and Dan, yes, Dan Dean, faltered!—"come to be forgiven. For years I have dogged your footsteps, hated you, persecuted you, lain in wait to ruin you. For this alone I have lived. God only knows—you don't—how bad I have been. But, Job, you are too much for me. The more I harm you, the nobler you grow. I have hated religion, but to-night I would give all I ever hope to own to have a little like yours. If religion can do for a fellow what it has for you, there is nothing in the world like it."

A little nearer he came, as Job, hardly believing his ears, listened.

"Job," he cried, "I don't deserve it, God knows! I have wronged you beyond all hope of mercy. But I must be forgiven, or I must die. You must forgive me. I cannot live another day with this awful feeling in my heart. I cannot sleep—I cannot work. I don't care whether I die or not, but I cannot go into eternity without knowing that you forgive me!"

At last the tears came, and Dan sank, crutch in hand, beside Jane's grave.

Job could not speak. For a moment, only the sound of a strong man's sobs and the hoot of an owl filled the air, then a passionate cry burst from Dan's lips:

"Tell me, Job, tell me, is it possible for you to forgive?"

For a moment Job faltered. He could see Trapper Bill pace the tepee and say, "Bill forgive Mono Indian;" he could hear theMaster saying, "After this manner pray ye, Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us;" and, kneeling and putting his arm about the quivering form, he whispered:

"Dan, I forgive!"

Long hours they stayed there, praying and talking, till Dan, grown quiet as a child, looked up with a strange, new expression, and said:

"You forgive and God forgives! Oh, Job, this is more than I ever hoped for! I can hardly stand it!"

It was Children's Day when Daniel Dean was received into the Gold City church. No one knew what was coming. Job rode down from the ranch with the secret hid in his heart. It was a lovely June Sunday. The roses were blossoming over the cottages, and the birds sang as if wild with joy. The mountains were covered with green, the valleys were robed in flowers, and golden plains stretched below.

Old friends were greeting each other, and familiar forms passing in at the church door, as Job led Andy Malden, leaning on his cane, to the family pew. The church was a bower of flowers, the songs of birds rang out from gayly bedecked cages, and the patter of children's feet was heard in the aisle.

It was a beautiful service. Music of voice and organ filled the air, wee tots tripped up to the platform and down again, saying in frightened voices little "pieces" that made mothers proud and big men listen. The pastor brought forth a number of candles, large and small, wax and common tallow, and put them on the pulpit, where he lit them one by one, showing how one, lit by the flame of the largest, could pass along and light the others; how one life lit by the fire of Jesus' love could light all the hearts around it. And from smallest bright-eyed boy to gray-haired Andrew Malden, all knew what he meant by the transforming power of a transformed life. It was then that song and service had its living illustration.

From Glacier Point, Yosemite.From Glacier Point, Yosemite.

It was just as the preacher finished his sermon and asked if any had children to be baptized, that Job arose and said there was one present who had come as a little child to Christ, and who wished to come as a little child into the church, and he would present him for baptism if he might.

The preacher gave willing consent, and the wondering congregation waited. Job rose and passed to the rear. Every head was turned. Then he came back, and on his arm, neatly dressed in a plain black suit, came poor, crippled Dan Dean.

The people who saw that scene can never agree on just what happened then. A resurrection from the dead could scarcely have surprised them more. It is said that they rose en masse and stood in silence as the pair passed down the aisle. Then someone started up, "There's a wideness in God's mercy like the wideness of the sea," and the whole church rang.

Some say that Dan told of his conversion and his faith in Jesus; some, that Job told it; some, the preacher. The preacher's tears, it is said, mingled with the baptismal waters, and the noonday sun kissed them into gold, on that famous Sunday when Daniel Dean was baptized and received as a little child into the Gold City church.

One evening soon after that memorable Sunday, Job reached home rather late. Putting Bess in the stall, he said a tender good-night, crossed the square to the gate, and went up to the house to find it strangely still. He pushed the door ajar and saw the old man leaning on his cane in his arm-chair. His white locks were gilded by the setting sun. His spectacles lay across the open Bible on the chair at his side. Job spoke, but there was no answer. Stepping over to see if the old man was asleep, he found he was indeed sleeping—the sleep that knows no waking.

Just at sunset, as the long summer day was dying, reading that precious Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," the weary traveler on life's long journey had finished his course and gone to the rest that remaineth for the children of God. Beside him, he had laid the Book; he would need it no more—he had gone to see the Savior "face to face." He had taken off his spectacles—the eyes that had needed them here would not need them in that world to which he had gone. On his staff he leaned, In the old farmhouse, the home of many years, and gently as a little child falls asleep in its mother's arms, he had leaned on God and gone to the better Home.

A feeling of utter loneliness came over Job. The last strong tie was broken. That night he walked over the old place in the dim light, and felt that heaven was coming to be more like home than earth.

"Waal, the old man's gone," Marshall Dean said, as he drew his chair back from the table. "Mighty long wait we've had, Sally, but now we'll get ready to move."

"Move!" cried his wife, "move! Marshall Dean, where is your common sense? Don't you know the whole thing will go to that man that's no kith nor kin of his, while we poor relations has to sit and starve!"

"Mother," said a voice, "I think Job Malden has a better right to the place than we. He's been a better relation to the old man than all the Deans together, if I do say it." It was Dan who spoke.

"Yes, that's the way! Bring up a son, and hear him talk back to his mother!—that's the way it goes! Ever since ye got religion down there at that gal's grave, ye've been a regular crank!"

The hot words stung, but Dan remained silent.

"I don't care, ma," said little Tom, "I think Job's nice, and if he's boss I'm going up there every day."

"Yes, and he'll kick ye out, or do the way he did with Dan at the Yellow Jacket—set a parcel of soldiers on to ye, just as if ye was a dog!" sharply retorted Mrs. Dean.

Dan could keep silent no longer. "Mother, what right have you to talk that way? I deserved all I got at the Yellow Jacket. And I shall never forget that when my leg was hurt and the surgeon took it off, Job came in and nursed me. No better man ever walked the earth than Job Malden,and not one of the Dean family is worth mentioning in the same breath."

The mother cut her bread in frowning silence, the father took his hat and left the room, while little Ross said:

"Job brought me a lot of the prettiest flowers once when I was sick! I wish he owned all the flowers, he's so good to me!"

Just then Baby Jim climbed into his mother's lap and said, "What's 'dead,' mamma? Where's Uncle Andy gone? Is you goin' there?" And the peevish, selfish woman took the child in her arms and went out on the sunny porch, wondering if indeed she was ever going there; whether this something which, after all, she knew had so changed Dan for the better, was for her.

Down at Squire Perkins' that night, a Chinese woman, kneeling by her kitchen chair, prayed that riches might not conquer Job Malden, who by the grace of God had stood so many of life's tests.

On the streets of Gold City they debated over the estate, wondering if Andrew Malden had left anything for public charity, and whether the new lord of Pine Tree Mountain would rebuild the mill and open the Cove Mine. Pioneers of the hills met each other by the way and talked of how fast changes were coming in Grizzly county—Yankee Sam gone, Father Reynolds gone, and now Andy Malden. They shook their heads and wondered what would become of things, with none but the youngsters left.

Up at the ranch, Tony crept softly across the floor and, himself unseen, looked in where Job sat by the still form of "old Marse."

It was over at last. Under the pines, close by his own boy and Jane, they laid him. It was a strange funeral. Tony, Hans, Tim's father and Sing bore the casket. A great throng was there. The man whom Grizzly county had once hated was buried amid its tears. Job stood with bared head as the preacher said, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and turned quickly away, feeling that the old days were gone forever.

It seemed very strange that night to hear Tony say, "Marse Malden, what's de work yo' hab for me?" He walked through the old house and then went out again. The soul of the place was gone.

Job wondered what the outside world looked like; what God had in store for him. He longed to leave the dead past behind him, and be out in the world of action and mighty purpose. But he was in the memory-world still; and as he slept that night, there came the friends of other days—his blue-eyed mother, Yankee Sam, black-eyed Jane, wan-faced Tim, the old man; across his dreams they came and went.

Last of all One came, the seamless robe enfolding Him, the dust covering His scarred feet, the print of thorns on His brow, and He whispered:

"Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world."

It was two days after the funeral. Sing had set things to rights in the old parlor; Tony brought in a bunch of flowers; and Job, leaving Bess saddled by the fence, came in and went up to his little room. They were coming to hear the will read. They would be here soon, the lawyer and the relatives and the preacher—for it was announced that the old man had left a snug sum to the church. Sing and Tony and Hans, arrayed in their best, waited for those who were coming.

At last they came—the preacher on horseback, in his long coat; Marshall Dean and his wife, in their best attire, followed by the nine young Deans of all ages. And back of all was Dan, in his neat black suit, looking paler and more frail than ever. Into the prim little parlor they all filed, andsat down awkwardly in a line around the room. The preacher remarked upon the weather, Mr. Dean said it was an uncommon warm summer, Mrs. Dean sent Tommy to get her a newspaper to use as a fan.

Just then a horse and cart drove up, and all looked out. It was Aunty Perkins. Why she had come, she knew not, except that Job had sent for her. She trotted in, and, with a little curtsey, said, "How do? Hot in sun. All well?" Next came Tim's father, in a new brown suit and a red tie that matched his hair. Last of all, Tom Reed looked in sheepishly, and seated himself outside the door. All sat in embarrassed silence, which grew painful as the moments went on. Where was the lawyer, and where was Job?

Finally they came—the attorney through the gate and up the path at a brisk pace. Then, dressed in a neat black suit, with black tie and black hat in hand, and looking for all the world as he had years before when he came in on the stage, only older grown, Job came down the stairs and, with a kind welcome, seated himself near the door.

The lawyer adjusted his spectacles and broke the seal of the document in his hand. Hans and Sing and Tony stood in the open door, a picturesque group in the afternoon sunlight. The lawyer rose, looked about, and cleared his throat. The anxious spectators leaned over, breathless. It had come at last! Only a second between them and some substantial remembrance from Andrew Malden.

The will was in the usual form, but it was brief. Slowly, almost haltingly, he read, so that the words fell clearly on each ear. This is what they heard:

"In the name of God, Amen. I, Andrew Malden, a native of Massachusetts, a resident of Grizzly county, State of California, being in clear mind and usual health, do hereby make my last will and testament. I hereby bequeath all my property, real and personal, those lands and buildings and appurtenances thereof situated in the county of Grizzly, all bonds and moneys deposited in the Gold City Bank, to Job Teale, who for many years has lived under my roof and been a son to me. All things that by the grace of God I own, I bequeath to him and his heirs and assigns forever.(Signed)Andrew Malden."

A stillness almost oppressive filled the room as the last word fell from the lawyer's lips, as the name of the last witness was read.

It was what they had expected—what in all justice was right—but not what they had hoped. All together they rose to go. The preacher was saying, "Mr. Malden, we hope the Lord will bless these riches to your good," Dan was looking as if impressed with the extreme justice of things, when Job arose and motioned them into silence. There he stood in the center, stood and looked into each face.

"Wait, Mr. Lawyer," he said. "I have a word before you go. Neighbors, friends, I have something to say. Fifteen years ago, the man whose last will we have heard to-day carried me, a helpless orphan, across the threshold of yonder door. From that night until now, I have called this home. Fifteen years! What changes they have brought! Dan and I were little boys; now we are men. The joys and sorrows of human life have come to me in these years. This old home has been dear to me; I love every nook and corner of it. These well-worn boards are holy ground. Here Andrew Malden lived; by that lounge he became a changed man; from that old rocker he went home to God. By yonder gate I first met her whom you all knew and loved; to this home, torn and crushed by life's troubles, I have fled like a child at dusk to its mother's arms, and in these rooms God has comforted and strengthened my heart. I love you all. Not always have we seen alike; you have not always loved me; but, some day, we shall know as we are known; some day we shall see face to face.

"I love these old mountains. I came tothem a boy; they have made a man of me. I have roamed their forests and climbed their cliffs. Every spot has precious memories. Yes, neighbors, I love the old hills, I love the old home; but to-night I am going far away from them. To-night, before the sun sets, I shall leave the old scenes forever. Here, lawyer, are some papers. Read them when I am gone. This is my will.

"Parson, you will build a new church with the money, and somewhere in it remember the ones who are gone. Tony, Hans, Reed, there is something for all of you. Dan, the old place is yours; keep it till I come. All I shall take is Bess and my mother's Testament.

"Farewell, Dan. Farewell, neighbors. God bless you, Tony; and, when you pray, don't forget me;" and, striding across the room, Job Malden was gone.

By the gate he tarried a moment, put his arms round Shot's shaggy neck and kissed him, sprang on Bess' back, gave one last look at Pine Tree Ranch, and was off.

There, in a silent, awed group, they stood in the door-yard and watched him go through the pasture gate. Across the hills, the sunset and the twilight fell on forest and fields and hearts.

That night, men say, a dark shadow stole out of the graveyard at midnight and galloped away. Far below in the Coyote Valley, where the road to the plains goes down from the hill, some one said that—lying awake near the window, in the stillness which comes towards morning—he heard the sound of horse's hoofs going by, and rider and horse swept on far down the road.

FINIS

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On Pine Tree mountain the old house still stands, its windows hidden beneath vines. Back and forth by the barns Tony slowly moves. By the gate an old dog lies waiting. On the porch a frail cripple sits in the twilight and looks down the road. But the one they wait for will never come. Across the years of busy action and world-wide service he treads the path that leads to "palms of victory, crowns of glory." In the joy of service he is finding the peace which the world cannot give nor take away. In self-forgetfulness he is growing daily into His likeness, until he shall at last awake in His image, satisfied.

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She stood at the end of the high bridge and looked over it to where her father was making his way along the river-bank by a path leading to the smelter. Then she glanced up another path branching at her feet from the road crossing the bridge and which climbed the mountain until it reached a little adobe cottage, then stopped. She seemed undecided, but the sweet tones of a church bell striking quickly on the clear April air caused her to turn her face in the direction from whence the sound came.

It was Martha Matilda, "Graham's girl," who stood thus, with the wind from the snow-caps blowing down fresh upon her, tossing to and fro the slim feather in her worn hat, and making its way under the lapels of her unbuttoned jacket—Martha Matilda Graham, aged ten, with a wistful face that might have been sweet and dimpled had not care and loneliness robbed it of its rightful possessions. Further back there had been a mother who called the child "Mattie." But now there was only "father," and with him it was straight "Martha Matilda," spoken a little brusquely, but never unkindly. Oh, yes, up in the cottage, certain days, was Jerusha, who did the heavy work and then went home nights; with Jerusha it was plain "Mat." Then there was Miss Mary down at the school which Martha Matilda had attended at the time when loving mother-fingers "fixed her up like other girls," and Miss Mary, when speaking to the child "running wild upon the mountain side," always said "dear." But Martha Matilda had dropped out of the day-school and out of the Sunday-school. Somehow she had grown tired of trying to keep shoe-strings from breaking, and aprons from being torn, and if she was just home with Towser, such things did not matter; as to her going to school, her father did not seem to care. "Guess there's no hurry 'bout filling so small a head," he would sometimes say when Jerusha pleaded for school with Martha's eyes assenting.

So now, Martha Matilda stood listening to the chiming of the Easter bells and seemed undecided as to her next move.

"I know Miss Mary's lily is there, and it's got five blossoms on this year; she told father so down at the store. And such a lot of evergreen as the girls did take in yesterday!" Her face was still turned in the direction of the church on the outskirts of the scraggly mountain town, and whose spire pricked through the dark green piñons surrounding it. "I ain't fixed—I ain't never fixed now." And she glanced down along her unbuttoned jacket, over the faded delaine dress, to her shoes tied with strings held together by countless knots. "It seems awful lonesome to be home on Easter."

She pulled out some brown woolen gloves from the pocket of her jacket, and drew them on slowly. Her fingers crowded out through numerous holes, but she pushed them back, pulling the ends of the gloves further up, and drawing down the sleeves of the jacket in an attempt to leave as small a part of the woolen gloves in sight as possible. "Father wouldn't care—he never cares." She buttoned her jacket hastily, settled her brown hat a little straighter, ran fleetly along the road leading toward the church, and breathlessly climbed the rudesteps, together with a half-dozen other girls, just as the bell threw down its last sweet tone.

Some of the girls going up the church steps nodded good-humoredly to Martha Matilda, but others pushed by too eager to notice. Martha did not follow the girls far up the aisle of the church, but dropped down into an empty pew near the door. How spicy and nice it did smell! She reached up so that she might see the prettily-decorated altar over the heads of the ones filling the church. Yes, there was Miss Mary's lily with its five blossoms right on the stand by the pulpit. How beautiful it looked, showing above the evergreens covering the altar-rail! And there were Mrs. James' geraniums, a whole row of them—no one but Mrs. James ever had geraniums worth much. And there were two little spruce trees, one at each end of the altar-rail, with their cones all on. Hadn't the girls worked, though! But the boys had helped. Lutty Williams had told Martha Matilda all about it Saturday evening, going home from the meat market, and then had awakened the first desire in Martha to go "just for Easter" to the school she had dropped out of.

Martha drew a long breath and was just falling back into an easier posture after her extended survey, when a hand touched her shoulder. "I thought, dear, you would want to see the lilies;" and there was Miss Mary, as tall and sweet as a lily herself, with a brown straw hat wreathed with cowslips, and a blue serge dress, neat and close-fitting. "You can see better up with us;" and she drew the hand with the brown woolen glove up close under her arm.

"Oh, no, Miss Mary, I can't! I ain't fixed! I can see here." And the little girl pulled herself back as far as Miss Mary's hold upon her allowed.

"Nonsense! The idea of your staying down here alone!"

There was such sweet insistence in Miss Mary's voice that Martha stood on her feet and allowed herself to be drawn out into the aisle. But though for a few steps she followed with evident reluctance, a latent dignity caused her to free her hand and walk the remainder of the way as though of her own accord. A cluster of girls were watching for Miss Mary's coming in a square pew near the front.

"We've saved a place for you right here in the middle," said the girl nearest the aisle, as their teacher came to them. And then they shifted this way and that, so that "the place" was widened to take in Martha Matilda as well.

"Doesn't the church look nice, now we have it all fixed!" asked one of the girls, as she nestled up close to Martha, reaching over her to speak lovingly to the teacher.

How cozy Martha felt, sitting there right in the heart of it all! How pretty the lilies were, up near! And to think that her mamma had given the first little bulb to Miss Mary!—Miss Mary had told her so one day at school.

But as Martha was reveling in the sights over which her eyes roamed, and feeling the sweet comfort of being nestled close, a girl at the further end of the pew broke a sturdy bit of rose geranium she held into two pieces and, reaching over, laid one half on the brown woolen gloves.

Looking up, Martha met a smile and a nod from the giver. Thus prompted, a lesson leaf was next laid upon the geranium branch by a second girl, and a smile from another pair of eyes met Martha's. After a little whispering and nodding between two girls near the aisle, one of their open singing books was laid on the lesson leaf. "That's the opening song; you'll get it after the first verse—you always do," was whispered, and, with a nod, the giver settled back in her place, and the one at her side passed her book along so as to make it serve for two.

Oh, how nice it was! And Martha drew a long breath. Then seeing that the holes in her gloves showed, she tucked themfurther under the singing book. This called to mind the broken shoe-strings, and she moved her feet back out of sight. But even unmended gloves and untidy shoes could not mar Martha Matilda's sweet feeling of comfort—poor little Martha Matilda, longing so to be taken in somewhere, but hardly knowing where or how!

As it was Easter morning, the service was given to the children, who had the center of the church reserved for them. The superintendent was seated by the side of the minister, and it was he who gave out the opening song. Martha found that after the first verse she could "catch it" very easily, and this joining in the service made her feel all the more one of them. The prayer that followed was a different prayer from any that Martha had ever listened to, so low and sweet and confiding were the words spoken, like friend talking with friend. The second song Martha joined in at once, it being one she knew, and so forgetful of self did she sing that more than one of the girls nodded to her appreciatively, and even Miss Mary looked down and smiled.

After this, there were songs and recitations by the scholars, some of them Miss Mary's own class, and in these Martha took great pride. Later, the older ones from the primary class graduated into the main room, and after a few words from the superintendent, each was presented with a diploma tied with blue ribbon, and a red Bible. How happy the children looked as they went down, not to their old places, but to seats reserved for them among the main-school scholars!

The services closed by a short sermon to the children from the minister—at least he called it a sermon, but to Martha it seemed just a tender little talk from a big brother who loved his little brothers and sisters so that he could not keep his love from showing, and who loved the dear Jesus more than he loved them. Martha had never been talked to like this. She sat forgetful of everything, even the woolen gloves, and at times the minister turned her way and it seemed as though he looked straight into her heart. Occasionally he touched the lilies at his side, showing how one may grow like a lily, expanding to take in Jesus' love as the lilies do the sunshine.

Martha went home as though treading on air. She held the rather wilted spray of rose geranium, and the lesson leaf, and with them was one of Miss Mary's calla lilies, broken off clear down to the ground—"the loveliest of the whole five," the girls said; and Miss Mary had smiled so lovingly when giving it! And then the minister had come up and, laying his hand on Martha's shoulder, had said, "It seems to me this is the little girl who helped me preach to-day by paying such good attention." Then Miss Mary spoke her name, and the minister said, "You must come again, my dear." Oh, it was all like a beautiful dream, only nicer!

Reaching the little home up where the path terminated, Martha opened the unlocked door and passed in. The sunshine made a warm mat on the floor, and the cat was curled contentedly upon it. Martha took a yellow and red vase down from the clock-shelf and, filling it with water, put her lily and geranium branch into it, and placed it on the table covered by a red table cloth, and partly set for dinner. The effect was not quite as pleasing as she expected, but perhaps the rose geranium would lose its droopy look after a while.

Before taking off her hat, she opened the dampers of the stove, tilted the cover above the chicken simmering in its gravy and pulled the kettle further back, then opened the oven door to find it just right for the potatoes Jerusha had in waiting. All this done, she removed her hat and hung her jacket on a nail. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of herself in the little glass over the bureau. It was not pleasing to her. How grimy her face looked, compared with the other girls'! And their dresses had lacearound the neck, or broad collars, or something.

Martha whirled around and, lifting the hand basin from its hook by the sink, she poured some warm water from the tea-kettle into it, carried it carefully to the sink, loosened her dress and set about giving her face and neck and hands a thorough scrubbing. This done, she drew a long breath. "Guess that fixes that!" she said. Then she took off the bit of soiled ribbon confining her braids, and taking down a comb from the comb-case near, dipped it into water and drew it carefully through her hair, after which she divided it into six strands and, giving each a little twirl, stood for a moment by the radiating stove. Presto! Six ropy curls danced up and down as their owner moved to and fro across the room, and as the sunshine fell over them their beauty lifted the little girl from out her plain surroundings.

She laughed as, brushing the short hair up around her face, and dampening it before the glass, little ringlets nodded around the forehead, modifying its squareness.

"It's 'most too fixed-up to wear that way every day. But Lutty Williams fusses with a hot iron to get hers so."

Then, a new idea striking her, she opened the bureau drawer and took out a white apron with sleeves and long strings. It was a trifle difficult to get on, and still more so to button, but at last this was done, and the strings made into a very respectable bow at the back. Smoothing it carefully down in front, Martha was disappointed to see that it did not reach nearly so far over the brown delaine dress as she had expected. She took no thought of Jerusha's having let out a tuck in her dress since the apron was last worn.

Martha's gaze now reached to her shoes. She turned to the clock, and, taking out a pair of shoe-strings, sat down by the stove and, removing her shoes, threw the bits of broken strings into the fire and threaded in the new lacings, tying them snugly. Lutty Williams' shoes were black as well as her lacings!—again there was a feeling of disappointment.

But the dinner needed her attention, so she turned to finish setting the table, which Jerusha had arranged in part, before going home. A second time a thought seemed to strike her, and now she reached to the top drawer of the bureau and drew forth a white table-cloth. Carefully she placed the vase on the window-sill, and, taking off the dishes and putting them back in the cupboard, removed the red table-cloth, folded it and placed that, too, in the cupboard. Jerusha did not think much of white tablecloths, but it was Easter, and Easter, the minister had said, should show loving touches throughout the home, just as Jesus left his loving touch through the world.

With great care Martha draped the table with the white linen, and replaced the lily. How beautiful it looked now in its new surroundings!—too beautiful for the hacked white dishes Jerusha used. So a chair was placed in front of the green cupboard, and with precision in every movement the "sprigged" dishes were gotten down.

"Oh, if only it could be that way all the time!" Martha Matilda sighed, standing beside her carefully-arranged table with shining eyes. But the potatoes were brown and puffy, and the hand of the clock reached to just half-past one. She gave a glance around the room, grabbed her hat, and was off; it was time for her to meet her father at the bridge, as she always met him Sundays, when dinner was ready. No matter how much John Graham might enjoy lolling in the sun by the smelter door with "the boys," he never forgot the time when the brown hat was to be met down by the bridge. "A little close," was often said of John Graham. "A trifle sharp in getting the best of a bargain, but to be depended upon every time."

Martha saw her father's faded felt hat bobbing up over the further abutment, and she flew across the bridge. "Oh, I am soglad to see you!" she said, catching hold of one of his big hands and covering it with both of her small ones, as she danced along beside him.

"One'd 'most think I'd been to Ingy," said the man in what would have seemed a gruff voice to some. Then he glanced at the little figure by his side, and said in just the same every-day tone, out of which he was seldom drawn, "Might'ly fixed up, seems to me."

"It's Easter, you know, pa. I went to Sunday-school. Miss Mary's lily was there, and there was lots of evergreen, and the minister said I helped him preach. And oh, pa, you don't know how the girls did take me in! They sat up just as close!"

"Take you in! And why shouldn't they?"

"But you know, pa, they fix up so. And—" The little girl stopped, seeming to feel it somewhat difficult to make her father understand the situation.

"So it's fine feathers, is it?" And now there was a decided gruffness in his voice.

But they had reached the door of the cottage, and the cat jumped down from the chair and brushed against the legs of her master. There was tea to be made, and the chicken to be dished; but the father did the latter, after having washed carefully. The potatoes were given the place of honor and the two sat down to do the meal justice.

"We might have had some eggs, seeing it's Easter," said the man, passing one of the largest potatoes to the little girl.

"Lutty Williams' mother colored hers. Lutty said I might have one of them, if I'd come over for it."

"Guess I wouldn't go to Lutty Williams' for no eggs, if I was in your place!" said the father.

This somewhat dampened the little girl's ardor, and the rest of the meal was partaken of in silence.

The dishes were cleared away and the red table-cloth replaced. "No use in Jerusha's being bothered," the wise Martha reasoned, as she replaced the white linen in the drawer. Then she unbuttoned the big gingham apron she had put on over the white one, and felt inclined to send the white apron after the table-cloth. But something kept her from doing this. "It's Easter anyhow."

Her father had taken the cat on his lap, and in a chair tipped back against the wall, with a broom splint between his teeth, sat reading the county paper.

Martha stood on the doorstep looking off to the mountains, and there was the old wistful look on her face again. The April sun had clouded in, and so had the bright spirit of the child. She tried to draw to her the warmth that had been holding her close, but instead there rested upon her a dreary sense of loneliness. Jerusha wouldn't wash white aprons every day, even if she fussed to put them on. In the morning her father would be off to the smelter. The same old life waited for her. She stood for a long time there in the door. Then her father reached around and took hold of her.

"What's the matter?" He had heard a sob. And though the little girl drew back he pulled her to him. "You ain't cryin'? Hoity-toity! A white apron, and hair all fixed, and the girls taking her right in, and—crying!"

"But, pa, I can't make it stay. Jerusha won't wash white aprons, and there ain't enough, anyway—and—it's so lonesome here with just Jerusha! All the rest of the girls have some one standing close—as close as that to them." And the little girl clutched at her father's coat-sleeve to demonstrate the closeness of relationship, while the sobs came thick and fast.

"Nobody but Jerusha!" The father brought his chair down from the wall, and all the blood in his body seemed to rush to his face. "Nobody standing close! Where be I standing? What am I going to the smelter for, putting two days into one, if it ain't standing close?"

The man spoke impetuously, the words tumbling recklessly one over the other, and the little girl's sobs were tumbling in thesame way; neither seemed inclined to stop the other.

"What'd I stand in front of Simonses show-window last night for, looking at them posies they've got for Easter, if 'twasn't because I'd liked to have brought the hull lot home? And why didn't I bring 'em home? Just so as I could slip more money this month in under the little bank winder. And what am I slippin' money into the bank for? Why'd I buy them Jersey cows, and that bit o' mountain park, if 'twasn't because I knowed Jerusha was the best butter-maker in town, and butter meant money, and money meant an easy time for you by and by? Standin' close!"

The man's voice broke. The little girl had ceased crying and was standing with wide, strained eyes fastened on her father. What did it all mean?

But the father did not say what it meant. As one suddenly overtaken, he pushed the cat from off his lap, rose, drew a long breath, and reached for his hat.

Had Martha Matilda been older, she would have tried to detain the one she had wounded. For he was wounded, just as are we all when suddenly there comes to us knowledge of long-continued effort being unappreciated. What was the use of all this struggling, beginning with the day and closing only when it was ended! He pulled an oat straw from a stack near, and then leaned on the bars of the cow-yard. Far beyond him were the snow-caps, now pink with the setting sun—the glow which the one gone from him had so loved to catch. His throat ached with suppressed emotion. He had striven so to stand true, to make the life of the child she had left easier than hers had been, just as he had promised!

The cows crowded up restlessly against the bars. It was milking time. Mechanically he returned to the kitchen, brought back with him the pails, placed a stool and sent the tinkling streams against the shiny pail. Pail after pail was filled and set aside, then with a gentle pat for the last meek-eyed Jersey, he brought the milk back to the house, strained it carefully, filled a saucer for the cat at his feet, rinsed the pails, and after the cows had been cared for for the night, went back and hung his hat on its accustomed nail. He crossed to the window where Martha sat stiff and uncomfortable in the big rocking-chair. Sitting down in front of her, he tilted his chair forward and, lifting her hands, stroked them gently.

"I have been thinking it all out down by the cows. It ain't right." He did not look at the face of the little girl, only at the hands he was stroking. "It wasn't because I wanted to break my promise to your ma—it wasn't a bit of that. You see the road was too hard for your ma; it is always go down or go up here in the mountains, and then it was always a little more money needed than we had. And when you came she couldn't bear to have the strain touch you, and almost the last thing she said was, 'You'll make it easier for her, she's such a little tot.' It wasn't because I meant to wriggle out of my promise that made me pretend not to see when your shoes gave out and your dresses got old and things in the house didn't run straight; it wasn't that."

There was a great sob in the voice now, and Martha, hearing it, looked up to find her father's rugged face wet with tears.

"Oh, pa, don't!" and the child's arm reached around her father's neck and she put her face close against his cheek.

But the man shook himself partially free, as he brushed the tears from his face.

"And you think as how there ain't been any love in it, when it's been all love! You see, the trouble's here: In trying to make an easier road for you than your mother had, I looked all the time at the further end instead of the nigh end. And I was so afraid that when you got further on there'd be no backing for you, that I left you without a backing now. But we will start right over new. I haven't just kept my promise, 'cause your mother meant it to be at thisend and right straight on. And that's how it should be. We'll start over new. It ain't ever too late to stop robbing Peter to pay Paul. You go straight down to Simonses to-morrow morning, Martha Matilda."

The little girl was looking at him now with cheeks flushed with eager attention. She go down to Simonses! But her father's words held her again.

"And you buy just as many of them posies as you want, and you get enough to make a bunch for every one of them girls as took you in, and you take 'em to them, and tell them that's your Easter gift."

"But pa—"

"There ain't no 'but pa' about it! And you fix a bigger bunch for Miss Mary, and get a shiny ribbon and tie round it—that's the way your mother fixed posies when she wanted them nice—and you tell Miss Mary that's for her Easter. And then you go to the minister's—"

Martha clapped her hands over her lips to keep back a cry of surprise. She go to the minister's!

"Your mother always went to the minister when anything was wanted. And you tell him John Graham wants that pew that he had when the church was first built—Number 25, on the east side, by the second window—the one that looks out on the mountains. Your mother and I put a sight of work and good hard money into the building of that church, and I ought to have stood right by it all along and not dropped out just because Sunday clothes cost."

"Oh, pa, did you help build that church?"

"Guess there's plenty round as would tell you so, if you asked, though this minister don't know, 'cause he's new."

"Say, pa, can't I have a red Bible? Of course it wouldn't be just like getting into Sunday-school regular, like the primaries, but I would like a red Bible."

"There it is again! All wrong. There's your mother's Bible; I hain't meant not to give it to you, only I was a-keepin' it till the further end of the road came when you'd 'preciate it better."

John Graham got up, and taking down a half-filled lamp, lighted it, the little girl keeping close at his side. From that same upper bureau drawer he took out a small package and, undoing the handkerchief wrapped around it, brought to view a Bible with a gilt clasp.

"It ain't a red Bible, but it's a Bible that has been read," he said. "And here's your name, just as your mother wrote it for you, almost the last time she handled it."

He opened the fly-leaf, and little Martha, drawing up close to his arm, read:

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