ned. "It must be fully
that hour now; so I must hurry back. After all this excitement is over,
I will talk further with you, Dudley, on the subject we were
discussing. Will you return with me now?"

"No," replied Abner, throwing himself down at full length on the grass
under the big elm, and drawing his hat over his face. "I'd rather stay
here and commune with nature. I want to think over what you've been
saying--and see if I can't find arguments to confute you."

CHAPTER XI.

LIGHT DAWNS

After Stone and Henry had disappeared through the woods, Dudley did not
long ponder over the late discussion; he found in his environment too
much food for other thought. He was on the same spot where, ten months
before, he had first been alone with Abby Patterson. Yonder was the
fallen log upon which she had sat toying with a spray of goldenrod, her
white bonnet beside her, the soft wind playing with her brown hair, the
sunlight through the overhanging boughs dancing over her head and
hands, and making little patches of brightness on her lavender gown.
The pungent odor of mint was in the air now as then when she had
gathered some for her uncle's glass of toddy. The water sparkled and
danced in the sunshine, trickling down the mossy rocks into the spring,
and yonder in the cleft was the old gourd from which he had poured
water on her hands.

Somewhere in his reading he had come across the story of the man who
always "thanked God for the blessings that passed over his head." Often
in the last few weeks he had had a dim consciousness that perhaps it
was best for both that Abby had not yielded to his pleadings; but
hitherto he had thrust the thought from him, as though it were
disloyalty to Abby and to love. But though the recollection of Abby had
still a tender, half-sad sweetness, Dudley's nature was too vigorous
and buoyant long to give way to melancholy and vain regrets. As he lay
there in the forest solitude, a renewed hopefulness filled his soul,
and he felt that he, too, could thank God for the blessing that had
passed him by. He got up, intending to return to the encampment, but a
recollection of something Abby had said in their last interview, about
his being blind to the good that fate was ready to bestow upon him,
suddenly arrested him. "What could she have meant?" he wondered, as he
seated himself on a stump, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, with a
stick in his hand, idly traced lines and figures in the dust a