“The minister was weak, sir.  He knew something of the intellectual side of his religion and the history of his church, but he knew little, very little, of the God that could sustain him in such a trial.  He was shamefully weak.  He tried to run away from his trouble, and, because the papers had made so much of his work as a preacher, and because of his son’s fame, he gave only the first part of his name, thinking thus to get away from it all for a season.

“But God was to teach the proud man of culture and religious forms a great lesson, and to that end directed his steps.  He was led here, here, sir, to your home, and you—­you told him the story of his son’s crime.”

The shepherd paused.  A hoarse whisper came from the giant in the chair, “You—­you, Dad, your—­name is—­”

The other threw out his hand, as if to guard himself, and shrank back; “Hush, oh hush!  I have no name but the name by which you know me.  The man who bore that name is dead.  In all his pride of intellect and position he died.  Your prayers for vengeance were answered, sir.  You—­you killed him; killed him as truly as if you had plunged a knife into his heart; and—­you—­did—­well.”

Aunt Mollie moaned.

“Is that all?” growled the mountaineer.

“All!  God, no!  I—­I must go on.  I must tell you how the man you killed staid in the hills and was born again.  There was nothing else for him to do but stay in the hills.  With the shame and horror of his boy’s disgrace on his heart, he could not go back—­ back to the city, his friends and his church—­to the old life.  He knew that he could not hope to deceive them.  He was not skilled in hiding things.  Every kind word in praise of himself, or in praise of his son, would have been keenest torture.  He was a coward; he dared not go back.  His secret would have driven him mad, and he would have ended it all as his son had done.  His only hope for peace was to stay here; here on the very spot where the wrong was done, and to do what little he could to atone for the crime.

“At first it was terrible; the long, lonely nights with no human friend near; the weight of shame; the memories; and the lonely wind—­always the wind—­in the trees—­her voice, Pete said, calling for him to come.  God, sir, I wonder the man did not die under his punishment!

“But God is good, Mr. Matthews.  God is good and merciful.  Every day out on the range with the sheep, the man felt the spirit of the hills, and little by little their strength and their peace entered into his life.  The minister learned here, sir, what he had not learned in all his theological studies.  He learned to know God, the God of these mountains.  The hills taught him, and they came at last to stand between him and the trouble from which he had fled.  The nights were no longer weary and long.  He was never alone.  The voices in the wilderness became friendly voices, for he learned their speech, and the poor girl ceased to call in the wailing wind.  Then Dr. Coughlan came, and—­”