dinner. She said that
roasted turkey, wild duck, and pumpkin-pie were waiting for them; and
Mr. Bates thought fondly what a treat it would be for Paul on his
birthday. He was to preach again that afternoon, seven miles away, and
so moved briskly toward the sulky.

"The poor fellow is asleep," said the preacher, seeing that the
curling head was not thrust up at his approach. "I wonder of what he
dreams?" He drew near as he spoke. Old Bob was munching his corn
sedately; the sulky had a saucy air; the robe nestled in the front,
with the tiny stool peeping from a corner; but Paul was not there. The
preacher called aloud; the horses raised their ears in reply, and the
wheels crackled in the frozen crust. He called again; some
sleigh-bells jingled merrily, and then the pines moaned. He looked
into the other vehicles; he watched for the little foot-tracks in the
snow; he ran back to the old church, and searched beneath every pew.

"Brethren--sisters," he cried, "I cannot find my boy!" and his voice was
tremulous. They gathered round him and some said that Paul had ridden
away with the worldly lads; others, that he was hiding mischievously.
But one silent bystander looked into the drifts, and traced four great
boot-marks close to the sulky. He followed them across the road into the
pines, and out into the road again, where they were lost in the
multitude of impressions. "Brother," he faltered, "God give you
strength! your boy has been stolen--kidnapped!"

The old man staggered, but the kind old lady caught him, and as he
leaned upon her shoulder his face grew hard and blanched; then he
removed his hat, and his gray hair streamed over his gaunt features.
"Let us pray!" he said.

The preacher plodded to his next appointment as if he had still a
child, and his sermon was as full and straightforward. He announced
his bereavement from the pulpit when he had done, and the whole
country was alarmed and excited. He bore the tidings to his desolate
home, and his stricken wife heard it with a stern resignation.
Thenceforward he preached more of the burning pit, and less of the
golden city; his eyes were full of fierce light, and his visage grew
long and ghastly. He denied himself all joys and comforts; his prayers
rang in the midnight through the gloomy parsonage; and he toiled in
the ministry as if reckless of life, and anxious to lose it in his
Master's service. The end came at last; the world closed over the grim
couple, and they