It was a long time before he closed the book. But at last he sighed

and rose from his couch. It was inevitable, this drifting apart. Fate

would hold for Mary some brilliant future. As for him, he must go on

with his work alone.

Yet he realized, even in that moment of renunciation, that it was a

wonderful thing that he could at last go on alone. A year ago he had

needed all of Mary's strength to spur him to the effort, all of her

belief in him. Now with his heart still crying out for her, needing

her, he could still go on alone!

He drew a long breath, and looked up through the singing tree-tops to

the bit of sky above. He stood there for a long time, silent, looking

up into the shining sky.

At ten o'clock when he entered the circle of young pines, his

congregation was ready for him, sitting on the rough seats which the

men had fashioned, their eager faces welcoming him, their eyes lighted.

The children whom he had taught led in the singing of the simple old

hymns, and Roger read a prayer.

Then he talked. He withheld nothing of the poetry of his subject; and

they rose to his eloquence. And when light began to fill a man's eyes

or tears to fill a woman's--Roger knew that the work of the soul was

well begun.

Afterward he went among them, becoming one of them in friendliness and

sympathy, but set apart and consecrated by the wisdom which made him

their leader.

Among a group of men he spoke of politics. "There's the new

President," he said; "it has been a great week in Washington. His

administration ought to mean great things for you people down here."

Thus he roused their interest; thus he led them to ask questions; thus

he drew them into eager controversy; thus he waked their minds into

activity; thus he roused their sluggish souls.

But he found his keenest delight in the children's gardens.

They were such lovely little gardens now--with violets blooming in

their borders, with daffodils and jonquils and hyacinths. Every bit of

bloom spoke to him of Mary. Not for one moment had she lost her

interest in the children's gardens, although she had ceased, it seemed,

to have interest in any other of his affairs.

Before he went, the children had to have their fairy tale. But

to-night he would not tell them Cinderella or Red Riding Hood. The day

seemed to demand something more than that, so he told them the story of

the ninety and nine, and of the sheep that was lost.




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