ed and indeed, it
will be a great ministry, Roderick, my son."

Roderick was silent. His heart was touched. He resolved he would do
the best he could for any friend of his father who was in trouble. But
his eye was set on far prospects of great achievement, where Algonquin
and the Jericho Road had no place.

Their talk was interrupted by Aunt Kirsty, who came to the door to
demand of him what he had done with his clothes. Had he come home, the
rascal, with nothing but what was on his back after the six pairs of
new socks she had sent him only last spring?

Roderick sprang up. "My trunk! It will be on the wharf. I yelled at
Peter to put it off there, just as we were driving away, and said I'd
paddle over and get it. I forgot all about it, Aunt Kirsty." The
father and son looked at each other and smiled. It was easy to forget
when they were together.

"I'll go after it right now. It's mostly old books and soiled clothes,
Auntie, but there's one nice thing in it. You ought to see the peach
of a shawl I got you." He ran in for his cap, and she followed him to
the door, scolding him for his foolish extravagance, but not deceiving
any one into thinking that she was not highly pleased.

Angus stood long at the water's edge watching the Lad's canoe slip away
out on the mirror of the lake. The shore was growing dark, but the
water still reflected the rose of the sunset. The soft dip of his
paddle disturbed its stillness and a long golden track marked the road
he was taking out into the light. Away ahead of him, beyond the
network of islands, shone the glory of the departing day. The Lad was
paddling straight for the Gleam. The father's mind went back to that
evening of stormy radiance, when the little fellow had paddled away to
find the rainbow gold.

His eyes followed the straight, alert young figure yearningly. He was
praying that in the voyage of life before him, his boy might never be
led away by false lights. He recalled the words of the poem Archie
Blair had recited the evening before at a young folks' meeting in the
town.

"_Not of the sunlight
Not of the moonlight
Not of the starlight,
Oh young Mariner,
Down to the haven,
Call your companions
Launch your vessel
And crowd your canvas
And e'er it vanish
Over the margin
After it; follow it;
Follow the gleam!_"

It held the burden of his prayer for the Lad; that, ever unswerving, he
might follow the true Gleam unt