r than he, The Pilot would either
disentangle the knots or would turn his mind to the verities that stood
out sure and clear, and Bill would be content.

"That's good enough for me," he would say, and his heart would be at
rest.

CHAPTER XXII

HOW THE SWAN CREEK CHURCH WAS OPENED

When, near the end of the year, The Pilot fell sick, Bill nursed him
like a mother and sent him off for a rest and change to Gwen, forbidding
him to return till the church was finished and visiting him twice a
week. The love between the two was most beautiful, and, when I find my
heart grow hard and unbelieving in men and things, I let my mind wander
back to a scene that I came upon in front of Gwen's house. These two
were standing alone in the clear moonlight, Bill with his hand upon The
Pilot's shoulder, and The Pilot with his arm around Bill's neck.

"Dear old Bill," The Pilot was saying, "dear old Bill," and the voice
was breaking into a sob. And Bill, standing stiff and straight, looked
up at the stars, coughed and swallowed hard for some moments, and said,
in a queer, croaky voice:

"Shouldn't wonder if a Chinook would blow up."

"Chinook?" laughed The Pilot, with a catch in his voice. "You dear old
humbug," and he stood watching till the lank form swayed down into the
canyon.

The day of the church opening came, as all days, however long waited
for, will come--a bright, beautiful Christmas Day. The air was still and
full of frosty light, as if arrested by a voice of command, waiting the
word to move. The hills lay under their dazzling coverlets, asleep. Back
of all, the great peaks lifted majestic heads out of the dark forests
and gazed with calm, steadfast faces upon the white, sunlit world.
To-day, as the light filled up the cracks that wrinkled their hard
faces, they seemed to smile, as if the Christmas joy had somehow moved
something in their old, stony hearts.

The people were all there--farmers, ranchers, cowboys, wives and
children--all happy, all proud of their new church, and now all
expectant, waiting for The Pilot and the Old Timer, who were to drive
down if The Pilot was fit and were to bring Gwen if the day was fine. As
the time passed on, Bill, as master of ceremonies, began to grow uneasy.
Then Indian Joe appeared and handed a note to Bill. He read it, grew
gray in the face and passed it to me. Looking, I saw in poor, wavering
lines the words, "Dear Bill. Go on with the opening. Sing the Psalm,
you know