Again the shepherd stopped.  He could not go on.  The light was gone from the sky and he felt the blackness of the night.  But against the stars he could still see the crown of the mountain where his son lay.  When he had gathered strength, he continued, saying simply, “Dr. Coughlan came, and—­last night we learned that my son was not dead but living.”

Again that growl like the growl of a wild beast came from the mountaineer.  Silently Mr. Howitt prayed.  “Go on,” came the command in hoarse tones.

In halting, broken words, the shepherd faltered through the rest of his story as he told how, while using the cabin under the cliff as a studio, the artist had discovered the passage to the old Dewey cave; how, since his supposed death, he had spent the summers at the scene of his former happiness; how he had met his son roaming the hills at night, and had been able to have the boy with him much of the time; how he had been wounded the night Jim Lane was killed; and finally how Pete had led them to his bedside.

“He is dying yonder.  Dr. Coughlan is with him—­and Pete—­Pete is there, too.  I—­I came for you.  He is calling for you.  I came to tell you.  All that a man may suffer here, he has suffered, sir.  Your prayer has been doubly answered, Mr. Matthews.  Both father and son are dead.  The name—­the old name is perished from the face of the earth.  For Christ’s dear sake, forgive my boy, and let him go.  For my sake, sir, I—­I can bear no more.”

Who but He that looketh upon the heart of man could know the battle that was fought in the soul of that giant of the hills?  He uttered no sound.  He sat in his seat as if made of stone; save once, when he walked to the end of the porch to stand with clenched hands and passion shaken frame, facing the dark clump of pines on the hill.

Slowly the moon climbed over the ridge and lighted the scene.  The mountaineer returned to his chair.  All at once he raised his head, and, leaning forward, looked long and earnestly at the old shepherd, where he sat crouching like a convict awaiting sentence.

From down the mill road came voices and the sound of horses’ feet.  Old Matt started, turning his head a moment to listen.  The horses stopped at the lower gate.

“The children,” said Aunt Mollie softly.  “The children.  Grant, Oh, Grant!  Sammy and our boy.”

Then the shepherd felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and a voice, that had in it something new and strange, said, “Dad,—­my brother,—­Daniel, I—­I ain’t got no education, an’ I—­don’t know rightly how to say it—­but, Daniel, what these hills have been to you, you—­you have been to me.  It’s sure God’s way, Daniel.  Let’s--let’s go to the boy.”

CHAPTER XLII.

The way of the lower trail.

Fix—­the—­light, as it was—­please?  That’s—­it.  Thank you, Doctor.  How beautiful she is—­how beautiful!” He seemed to gather strength, and looked carefully into the face of each member of the little group about the bed; the shepherd, Old Matt, Aunt Mollie, Pete, and the physician.  Then he turned his eyes back to the painting.  To the watchers, the girl in the picture, holding her brimming cup, seemed to smile back again.