“In the depth of the tunnel or the shaft you need a candle, throwing out its welcome rays, to show you how to work the best and where to dig, as you follow the lead.  In the search for gold the way is very often dark, so we’ll sing a hymn that I think you will like, and then we’ll conclude with a prayer.

“Children—­girls—­we will all start it off together, you and your mother and me.”

The three little, bright-faced girls, the pretty mother, and the father of the little flock stood there together to sing.  They sang the hymn old Jim had attempted to recall at his own little service that Sunday, weeks before: 

  “Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
    Lead Thou me on. 
  The night is dark and I am far from home. 
    Lead Thou me on. 
  Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
  The distant scene; one step enough for me.”

The fresh, sweet voices of the three little girls sent a thrill of pleasure through the hearts of the big, rough men, and the lumps arose in their throats.  One after another they joined in the singing, those who knew no words as well as those who were quick to catch a line or more.

Then at last the preacher held up his hand in his earnest supplication.

“Father,” he said, in his simple way, “we are only a few of Thy children, here in the hollow of Thy mountains, but we wish to share in the beauty of Thy smile.  We want to hear the comfort of Thy voice.  Away out here in the sage-brush we pray that Thou wilt find us and take us home to Thy heart and love.  Father, when Thou sendest Thy blessing for this little child, send enough for all the boys.  Amen.”

And so the evening ended, and the night moved in majesty across the mountains.

In the morning, soon after breakfasts were eaten, and Jim and the preacher had come again to the home of the Dennihans, Webber, the blacksmith, and Lufkins, the teamster, presently arrived with the horses and carriage.

A large group of men swiftly gathered to bid good-bye to the children, the shy little mother, and the fine young preacher.

“I’m sorry to go,” he told them, honestly.  “I like your little camp.”

“It’s goin’ to be a rousin’ town pretty soon, by jinks!” said Keno, pulling at his sleeves.  “I’m showin’ up a great big ledge, on Jim’s Baberlonian claim.”

“Mebbe you’ll some day come back here, parson,” said the smith.

“Perhaps I shall,” he answered.  Then a faint look of worry came on his face as he thrust his hand in his pocket.  “Before I forget it, you must let me know what my bill is for board of the horses and also for the work you’ve done.”

Webber flushed crimson.

“There ain’t no bill,” he said.  “What do you take us fellers fer—­since little Skeezucks came to camp?  All we want is to shake hands all ’round, with you and the missus and the little girls.”

Old Jim, little Skeezucks, the pup, and Miss Doc, with Mrs. Stowe, came out through the snow to the road in front of the gate.  Not a penny had the preacher been able to force upon the Dennihans for their lodging and care.