touch, half remembered, half forgotten.

And then from the shadowy hush of the woods the answer came. Away in
the darkening depths there arose a strain of music, serene as though
the spirit of the twilight had taken voice:

"_O hear all! O hear all! O holy, holy!_"

John McIntyre's heart gave a leap of joy that was almost pain. The
hermit thrush! _His_ thrush, singing in the Ontario woods! The song
floated out, filling the purple valley, sweet, tender, celestial,
speaking perfect peace and tranquillity, and calling to his soul to bow
in thankfulness before his Maker. The man took off his hat, and stood
with bowed head. Perhaps it was a miracle, part of the miracle of
love, that had recreated his old home about him. And why not? For was
there anything too wonderful to happen to one who knew that his Father
ruled, and was a Being whose very name was Love? Perhaps the hermit
thrush had been sent to him, a special messenger to remind him that He
was with him still, and would be to the end--that One who had spoken to
him out of the dawn mists of the Drowned Lands, the One who would walk
with him through the lonely years till he joined Mary in the Home
above, the One from whose tender care he could never be separated,
either by sorrow or death.

A long, clear call from the hilltop behind, and Tim's little figure
came scrambling over the fence. The man did not move, for once more
the song arose, and poured forth a strain of purest melody:

"_O hear all! O hear all! O holy, holy!_"

It died lingeringly away. The woods were dark and silent. John
McIntyre turned and went up the hill, smiling, his face to the Light.

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Treasure Valley, by Marian Keith

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