Then the Boss sat brooding.

“Freckles,” he said at last, “we never know the timber of a man’s soul until something cuts into him deeply and brings the grain out strong.  You’ve the making of a mighty fine piece of furniture, my boy, and you shall have your own way these few weeks yet.  Then, if you will go, I intend to take you to the city and educate you, and you are to be my son, my lad—­my own son!”

Freckles twisted his finger in Nellie’s mane to steady himself.

“But why should you be doing that, sir?” he faltered.

McLean slid his arm around the boy’s shoulder and gathered him close.

“Because I love you, Freckles,” he said simply.

Freckles lifted a white face.  “My God, sir!” he whispered.  “Oh, my God!”

McLean tightened his clasp a second longer, then he rode down the trail.

Freckles lifted his hat and faced the sky.  The harvest moon looked down, sheeting the swamp in silver glory.  The Limberlost sang her night song.  The swale softly rustled in the wind.  Winged things of night brushed his face; and still Freckles gazed upward, trying to fathom these things that had come to him.  There was no help from the sky.  It seemed far away, cold, and blue.  The earth, where flowers blossomed, angels walked, and love could be found, was better.  But to One, above, he must make acknowledgment for these miracles.  His lips moved and he began talking softly.

“Thank You for each separate good thing that has come to me,” he said, “and above all for the falling of the feather.  For if it didn’t really fall from an angel, its falling brought an Angel, and if it’s in the great heart of you to exercise yourself any further about me, oh, do please to be taking good care of her!”

CHAPTER VI

Wherein a Fight Occurs and Women Shoot Straight

The following morning Freckles, inexpressibly happy, circled the Limberlost.  He kept snatches of song ringing, as well as the wires.  His heart was so full that tears of joy glistened in his eyes.  He rigorously strove to divide his thought evenly between McLean and the Angel.  He realized to the fullest the debt he already owed the Boss and the magnitude of last night’s declaration and promises.  He was hourly planning to deliver his trust and then enter with equal zeal on whatever task his beloved Boss saw fit to set him next.  He wanted to be ready to meet every device that Wessner and Black Jack could think of to outwit him.  He recognized their double leverage, for if they succeeded in felling even one tree McLean became liable for his wager.

Freckles’ brow wrinkled in his effort to think deeply and strongly, but from every swaying wild rose the Angel beckoned to him.  When he crossed Sleepy Snake Creek and the goldfinch, waiting as ever, challenged:  “See me?” Freckles saw the dainty swaying grace of the Angel instead.  What is a man to do with an Angel who dismembers herself and scatters over a whole swamp, thrusting a vivid reminder upon him at every turn?