So his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when she herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops.  The purport was, that, at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the Great Stone Face.  Not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy.  But others, who had seen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, and had beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much greater or nobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale.  At all events, the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared.

‘O mother, dear mother!’ cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head, ‘I do hope that I shall live to see him!’

His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy.  So she only said to him, ‘Perhaps you may.’

And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him.  It was always in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face.  He spent his childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart.  In this manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have been taught at famous schools.  Yet Ernest had had no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him.  When the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration.  We must not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the Face may have looked no more kindly at Ernest than at all the world besides.  But the secret was that the boy’s tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion.

About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the great man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone Face, had appeared at last.  It seems that, many years before, a young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he had set up as a shopkeeper.  His name but I could never learn whether it was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life—­was Gathergold.