day was near its end when we
got to the first big clearing. From the top of a high hill we could see
above the far forest, the red rim of the setting sun, big with winding
from the skein of day, that was now flying off the tree-tops in the
west.

We stopped to feed the horses and to take a bite of jerked venison,
wrapped ourselves warmer, for it was now dunk and chilly, and went on
again. The road went mostly downhill, going out of the woods, and we
could make good time. It was near midnight when we drove in at our gate.
There was a light in the sitting-room and Uncle Eb and I went in
with Gerald at once. Elizabeth Brower knelt at the feet of her son,
unbuttoned his coat and took off his muffler. Then she put her arms
about his neck while neither spoke nor uttered any sound. Both mother
and son felt and understood and were silent. The ancient law of God,
that rends asunder and makes havoc of our plans, bore heavy on them in
that moment, I have no doubt, but neither murmured. Uncle Eb began to
pump vigorously at the cistern while David fussed with the fire. We were
all quaking inwardly but neither betrayed a sign of it. It is a way the
Puritan has of suffering. His emotions are like the deep undercurrents
of the sea.

Chapter 17

If I were writing a novel merely I should try to fill it with merriment
and good cheer. I should thrust no sorrow upon the reader save that
he might feel for having wasted his time. We have small need of
manufactured sorrow when, truly, there is so much of the real thing on
every side of us. But this book is nothing more nor less than a history,
and by the same token it cannot be all as I would have wished it.
In October following the events of the last chapter, Gerald died of
consumption, having borne a lingering illness with great fortitude.
I, who had come there a homeless orphan in a basket, and who, with the
God-given eloquence of childhood had brought them to take me to their
hearts and the old man that was with me as well, was now the only son
left to Elizabeth and David Brower. There were those who called it folly
at the time they took us in, I have heard, but he who shall read this
history to the end shall see how that kind of folly may profit one or
even many here in this hard world.

It was a gloomy summer for all of us. The industry and patience with
which Hope bore her trial, night and day, is the sweetest recollection
of my youth. It brought to her young face a tender sobe