He left the wagon road, and followed a trail up the side of the hill.  The sun was nearing the white mountain peaks.  An autumn haze hung over the valley and made the distance dim and blue.  The odor from the trees greeted him, and recalled memories of the time when, full of life and hope, he had roamed his native pine-clad hills.  He was nearing home, anyway.  The preacher had said that dying was only going home.  If there was a hereafter, it could be no worse than the present; and if death ended all, well, his bones would rest in peace in this lone place.  The wolf and the coyote might devour his flesh—­let them—­and their night howl would be his funeral dirge.

Far up, he went into the deepest of the forest.  The noise of falling waters came to him as a distant hymn.  He sat on the ground to rest, before he made his last climb.  Mechanically, he took from his pocket a small book, his testament—­his sole remaining bit of property.  He opened it, and his eyes fell on some lines which he had penciled on the margin, seemingly, years and years ago.  They ran as follows: 

  “’Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up,
  Whose golden rounds are our calamities.”

And the passages to which they pointed read: 

“My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.  If ye receive chastenings, God dealeth with you as with sons, for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not?”

The book dropped from the reader’s trembling grasp.  It was then that the Angel of Mercy said, “It is enough,” and touched the young man’s heart.  The long pent-up spring burst forth, and Rupert sobbed like a child.  By a huge gray rock sheltered by the pines, he uttered his first prayer to God.  For a full hour he prayed and wept, until a peaceful spirit overpowered him, and he slept.

Rupert awoke with a changed heart, though he was weak and faint.  Evening was coming on and he saw the smoke curling from the chimney of a farmhouse half a mile below.  Painfully, he made his way down to it.

A young man was feeding the cows for the night, and Rupert went up to him, and said: 

“Good evening, sir; have you any objection to my sleeping in your barn tonight?”

The man eyed him closely.  Tramps did not often come to his out-of-the-way place.

“Do you smoke?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I have no objection, though I don’t like tramps around the place.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The man moved off, but turned again.  “Have you had any supper?” he asked.

“No; but I do not care for anything to eat, thank you.”

“Strange tramp, that,” said the man to himself, “not to want anything to eat.  Well, go into the shanty and warm yourself, anyway.”