He sat for long hours with the letter in his hand, as one who holds his death-warrant.  Then falling upon his face, he cried to his Helper.  And He who is of great pity and tender mercies heard, and drew nigh in the darkness and comforted him, even “as one whom his mother comforteth,” and when the morning dawned he arose and took up the burden of life again, where he was, ere Vida Irving stole into his heart.  No, not that, it could never be the same again.  When the lightning sends his lurid bolt down a noble tree, it may not wave green and fair as once; there will be dead branches and the gnarled seam to tell the story that

“Fire hath scathed the forest oak.”

The grave man who went out into life again carried the marks of the conflict in sad eyes and pale cheeks.  Not the least of this great trial was to meet and answer the looks and questions of the curious.  For the present he could truthfully say: 

“Mrs. Eldred has unexpectedly gone to her mother.”

Meanwhile he resigned his charge, much to the sorrow and dismay of all.  He disposed of all the elegant furnishings of the parsonage, and with haste left the spot that had been the scene of an exquisite torture.  No defined plans were before him, save to get far away from any who could have had the least knowledge of him previously.  No fugitive from justice ever felt more nervous haste.  He pushed on, never pausing till he reached the very verge of civilisation in the far south-west.  Not that he would be a hermit or misanthrope, but perchance find a people destitute of the gospel.  He would bring it to them.  He must preach Christ till death.  This should be his joy and comfort; henceforth no other love should come between his soul and his dear Master.

And he found his work, as if an unerring path had been marked out straight to the little log church in the woods.

While Vida sat in a lofty temple of arches and massive pillars, the sunlight toned to the appropriate dimness, as it stole through the stained windows, the same hour her husband stood in the log church of the wilderness, its arches and pillars outside—­the tall old trees locking arms overhead.  Nature softened the fierce rays in this temple as well, for they filtered through thick green boughs, and flecks of light fell here and there, a stray one resting halo-like upon the minister’s head, transfiguring him in the eyes of the hungry souls whose upturned faces drank in the words of life.

This unlearned, simple people with whom he had cast his lot, had their faults, but to the refreshment of his soul, they had no card or dancing parties, theatre or opera to steal the soul from Christ after the manner of more cultured Christians.  The church was the apple of their eye.  They made sacrifices for it, and travelled weary miles in the worst of weather, rather than lose a “meeting.”