ling
stately acres.

Rowan looked out now: past the evergreens just outside to the
shining lawn beyond; and farther away, upon fields of brown
shocks--guiltless harvest; then toward a pasture on the horizon.
He could see his cattle winding slowly along the edge of a russet
woodland on which the slanting sunlight fell. Against the blue sky
in the silvery air a few crows were flying: all went in the same
direction but each went without companions. He watched their wings
curiously with lonely, following eyes. Whither home passed they?
And by whose summons? And with what guidance?

A deep yearning stirred him, and he summoned his wife and the nurse
with his infant son. He greeted her; then raising himself on one
elbow and leaning over the edge of the bed, he looked a long time
at the boy slumbering on the nurse's lap.

The lesson of his brief span of years gathered into his gaze.

"Life of my life," he said, with that lesson on his lips, "sign of
my love, of what was best in me, this is my prayer for you: may you
find one to love you such as your father found; when you come to
ask her to unite her life with yours, may you be prepared to tell
her the truth about yourself, and have nothing to tell that would
break her heart and break the hearts of others. May it be said of
you that you are a better man than your father."

He had the child lifted and he kissed his forehead and his eyes.
"By the purity of your own life guard the purity of your sons for
the long honor of our manhood." Then he made a sign that the nurse
should withdraw.

When she had withdrawn, he put his face down on the edge of the
pillow where his wife knelt, her face hidden. His hair fell over
and mingled with her hair. He passed his arm around her neck and
held her close.

"All your troubles came to you because you were true to the
highest. You asked only the highest from me, and the highest was
more than I could give. But be kind to my memory. Try to forget
what is best forgotten, but remember what is worth remembering.
Judge me for what I was; but judge me also for what I wished to be.
Teach my son to honor my name; and when he is old enough to
understand, tell him the truth about his father. Tell him what it
was that saddened our lives. As he looks into his mother's face,
it will steady him."

He put both arms around her neck.

"I am tired of it all," he said. "I want rest. Love has been more
cruel to me than death."

A few