“Indeed!” exclaimed the other, “you have only one child then?”

The amused smile left the face of the old mountaineer, as he answered slowly, “There was six boys, sir; this one, Grant, is the youngest.  The others lie over there.”  He pointed with his pipe to where a clump of pines, not far from the house, showed dark and tall, against the last red glow in the sky.

The stranger glanced at the big man’s face in quick sympathy.  “I had only two; a boy and a girl,” he said softly.  “The girl and her mother have been gone these twenty years.  The boy grew to be a man, and now he has left me.”  The deep voice faltered.  “Pardon me, sir, for speaking of this, but my lad was so like your boy there.  He was all I had, and now—­now—­I am very lonely, sir.”

There is a bond of fellowship in sorrow that knows no conventionalities.  As the two men sat in the hush of the coming night, their faces turned toward the somber group of trees, they felt strongly drawn to one another.

The mountaineer’s companion spoke again half to himself; “I wish that my dear ones had a resting place like that.  In the crowded city cemetery the ground is always shaken by the tramping of funeral professions.”  He buried his face in his hands.

For some time the stranger sat thus, while his host spoke no word.  Then lifting his head, the man looked away over the ridges just touched with the lingering light, and the valley below wrapped in the shadowy mists.  “I came away from it all because they said I must, and because I was hungry for this.”  He waved his hand toward the glowing sky and the forest clad hills.  “This is good for me; it somehow seems to help me know how big God is.  One could find peace here—­surely, sir, one could find it here—­peace and strength.”

The mountaineer puffed hard at his pipe for a while, then said gruffly, “Seems that way, Mister, to them that don’t know.  But many’s the time I’ve wished to God I’d never seen these here Ozarks.  I used to feel like you do, but I can’t no more.  They ’mind me now of him that blackened my life; he used to take on powerful about the beauty of the country and all the time he was a turnin’ it into a hell for them that had to stay here after he was gone.”

As he spoke, anger and hatred grew dark in the giant’s face, and the stranger saw the big hands clench and the huge frame grow tense with passion.  Then, as if striving to be not ungracious, the woodsman said in a somewhat softer tone, “You can’t see much of it, this evening, though, ’count of the mists.  It’ll fair up by morning, I reckon.  You can see a long way from here, of a clear day, Mister.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Mr. Howitt, in an odd tone.  “One could see far from here, I am sure.  We, who live in the cities, see but a little farther than across the street.  We spend our days looking at the work of our own and our neighbors’ hands.  Small wonder our lives have so little of God in them, when we come in touch with so little that God has made.”