in the same glance, through the vista of the forest, appeared the Great Stone Face!  And was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified.  Alas, Ernest could not recognize it!  He beheld a war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of energy, and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, were altogether wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder’s visage; and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed his look of stern command, the milder traits would still have tempered it.

“This is not the man of prophecy,” sighed Ernest, to himself, as he made his way out of the throng.  “And must the world wait longer yet?”

The mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, and there were seen the grand and awful features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple.  As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening, although without motion of the lips.  It was probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting through the thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object that he gazed at.  But—­as it always did—­the aspect of his marvellous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain.

“Fear not, Ernest,” said his heart, even as if the Great Face were whispering him,—­“fear not, Ernest; he will come.”

More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away.  Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a man of middle age.  By imperceptible degrees, he had become known among the people.  Now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same simple-hearted man that he had always been.  But he had thought and felt so much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had been talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares.  It was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all along its course.  Not a day passed by, that the world was not the better because this man, humble as he was, had lived.  He never stepped aside from his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor.  Almost involuntarily, too, he had become a preacher.  The pure and high simplicity of his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth in speech.  He uttered truths that wrought upon and moulded the lives of those who heard him.  His auditors, it may be, never suspected that Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man; least of all did Ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as the murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken.