In the shanty, Rupert found an old stove glowing with a hot fire, by the side of which he seated himself.  The night was chilly in that high altitude, and Rupert spread out his palms to the warmth.  Inside the house, he heard the rattle of dishes and the voices of women.  Then strains of songs floated out to him, and he became an intent listener.  Soon from out the humming came two sweet voices, singing.  Rupert sat as one spellbound, as the song seemed to melt into his soul: 

  “O my Father, thou that dwellest
    In the high and glorious place! 
  When shall I regain thy presence,
    And again behold thy face? 
  In thy holy habitation,
    Did my spirit once reside;
  In my first primeval childhood,
    Was I nurtured near thy side.

  “For a wise and glorious purpose
    Thou hast placed me here on earth,
  And withheld the recollection
    Of my former friends and birth;
  Yet ofttimes a secret something
    Whispered, You’re a stranger here;
  And I felt that I had wandered
    From a more exalted sphere.

  “I had learned to call thee Father,
    Through thy Spirit from on high;
  But until the Key of Knowledge
    Was restored, I knew not why. 
  In the heavens are parents single? 
    No; the thought makes reason stare. 
  Truth is reason; truth eternal
    Tells me I’ve a mother there.

  “When I leave this frail existence,
    When I lay this mortal by,
  Father, mother, may I meet you
    In your royal courts on high? 
  Then, at length, when I’ve completed
    All you sent me forth to do,
  With your mutual approbation
    Let me come and dwell with you.”

The door opened, and a young woman came out with a small tin pail in her hand.  At sight of Rupert she gave a startled cry and backed to the door.  Just then the young farmer passed through the shanty and explained that it was only a “traveler” warming himself.  The young woman looked steadily at Rupert.  The fire shone out from the open door of the stove, and the light danced on the rough board walls, throwing a halo of red around the girl.

“What a sweet picture,” instantly thought Rupert.

Then she slowly advanced again, and, instead of pouring the contents of the pail into a larger dish as was her errand, she placed it on the table by Rupert, and said, smilingly: 

“Vil you have a drink of varm milk?”

“Thank you, thank you.”

Then she went back.

Warm milk!  What could be more delicious?  Rupert sipped the sweet fluid.  How it invigorated him and surcharged him with new life.  And given by such hands, with such a smile!  It was a glimpse of past glories.

In the morning Rupert was asked if he wanted a job.

“Yes,” was the answer.

“Can you work on a farm?”

“I’ve been a farmer all my life,” was the reply.  “I’m not a tramp, as you understand that term.”