And this way runs the trail that lies along the higher, sunlit hills where those who journey see afar and the light lingers even when the day is done.

CHAPTER XLV.

Some years later.

A wandering artist, searching for new fields, found his way into the Ozark country.  One day, as he painted in the hills, a flock of sheep came over the ridge through a low gap, and worked slowly along the mountain side.  A few moments later, the worker at the easel lifted his eyes from the canvas to find himself regarded by an old man in the dress of a native.

“Hello, uncle.  Fine day,” said the artist shortly, his eyes again upon his picture.

“The God of these hills gives us many such, young sir, and all His days are good.”

The painter’s hand paused between palette and canvas, and his face was turned toward the speaker in wonder.  Every word was perfect in accent of the highest culture, and the deep musical tone of the voice was remarkable in one with the speaker’s snowy hair and beard.  The young man arose to his feet.  “I beg your pardon, sir.  I thought—­” He hesitated, as he again took in the rude dress of the other.  The brown eyes, under their white shaggy brows, lighted with good nature.  “You mean, young sir, that you did not think.  ’Tis the privilege of youth; make the most of it.  Very soon old age will rob you of your freedom, and force you to think, whether you will or no.  Your greeting under the circumstance is surely excusable.  It is I who should beg pardon, for I have interrupted your study, and I have no excuse; neither my youth nor my occupation will plead for me.”

The charm of his voice and manner were irresistible.  The painter stepped forward with outstretched hand, “Indeed, sir; I am delighted to meet you.  I am here for the summer from Chicago.  My camp is over there.”

The other grasped the offered hand cordially, “I am Daniel Howitt, young sir; from the sheep ranch in Mutton Hollow.  Dad Howitt, the people call me.  So you see you were not far wrong when you hailed me ‘Uncle.’  Uncle and Dad are ‘sure close kin,’ as Preachin’ Bill would say.”

Both men laughed, and the painter offered his folding easel chair.  “Thank you, no.  Here is a couch to which I am more accustomed.  I will rest here, if you please.”  The old man stretched himself upon the grassy slope.  “Do you like my hills?” he asked.  “But I am sure you do,” he added, as his eye dwelt fondly upon the landscape.

“Ah, you are the owner of this land, then?  I was wondering who—­”

“No, no, young sir,” the old man interrupted, laughing again.  “Others pay the taxes; these hills belong to me only as they belong to all who have the grace to love them.  They will give you great treasure, that you may give again to others, who have not your good strength to escape from the things that men make and do in the restless world over there.  One of your noble craft could scarcely fail to find the good things God has written on this page of His great book.  Your brothers need the truths that you will read here; unless the world has greatly changed.”