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.