Part 9 (2/2)

The milkstand arose leisurely. Silas Long shouldered his telescope, Jake Sawyer slung his orphan over his back, and the group turned up Cameron's lane, crossed the orchard, and went down the winding pathway into the ravine.

The little stream danced along at their side, touched here and there with the gold of the sunset, the vesper sparrows had gathered for their twilight chorus, and the valley was vibrating with music.

No matter at what hour of the day, or season of the year, it might be viewed, the ravine where the mill-stream ran was a treasure-house to any one who had the seeing eye. Long before, when Elmbrook was merely a ”Corners,” with one or two houses, there came to the place a queer Englishman, who wandered all day about the fields, and painted pictures and read strange, dry books by a man named Ruskin. He first entered the valley on an October morning, when it was all gold and crimson, and lay shrouded in a soft violet mist. The man had sat for hours gazing down the winding stream, and afterward he had said it was the Golden River, and that the place should be called Treasure Valley. But Sandy McQuarry's father, who was living then, said that onybody with a head on him could see that it was clean ridic'l'us to give a place such a daft name. McQuarry's Corners it had been called for years, and McQuarry's Corners it would stay. The queer Englishman left, and was never heard of again, and old Sandy died, and when the post-office came old lady Cameron named the place Elmbrook; but Treasure Valley still remained with the little Golden River flowing through it, showing new beauties with every recurring season.

About a mile below the village the walls of the ravine disappeared, and the brook was lost in a deep swamp, a maze of tangled foliage and deep pools and idly wandering streams. As the water advanced the forest became submerged, and formed a desolate stretch known as the Drowned Lands. Its slimy, green surface was dotted with rotten stumps and fantastic tree-trunks, pitched together in wild confusion, and above it rose a drear, dead forest of tall pine stems, bleached and scarred, and stripped of every limb. Around this silent, ghostly place the swamp formed a ring through which it was dangerous to pa.s.s, for near the edge of the Drowned Lands it was honeycombed with mud holes, into which it was sure death to slip. Terrible tales were related of lives lost in this swamp. Folks said that a banshee or a will-o'-the-wisp, or some such fearsome creature, wandered to and fro at nights over the surface of the desolate waters, waving her pale lantern and calling for help, or in other ways enticing unwary travelers to their death. Some had been lured into the depths by her voice and had never returned.

It was in this drear, lonely place that the tramp had taken up his abode. Just where a corduroy road, now abandoned and gra.s.s-grown, pa.s.sed out of the ravine and along the edge of the swamp, stood Sandy McQuarry's old lumber shanty, and here Uncle Hughie Cameron and the doctor had taken John McIntyre. Before it lay the swamp, and through occasional gaps gleamed the still waters of the Drowned Lands.

As the visitors emerged from the valley there was a loud hallo from the hill-top, and a small, limping figure came hurrying down the slope.

The little fellow perched upon Jake Sawyer's shoulder gave a squeal of welcome, and Jake's face lit up.

”h.e.l.lo, you, Tim!” called the big man cordially, as the youngster came limping toward him, ”what you been up to now?”

The boy glanced around the group and placed himself as far as possible from Spectacle John. ”Jist been fis.h.i.+n',” he remarked vaguely; ”and I'm goin' with you,” he added, with that mixture of defiance and appeal which the orphans had already learned was sure to move their foster-parents.

”Ye'd better watch out! The banshee'll git ye,” threatened Spectacle John.

”Speakin' o' a banshee,” put in the blacksmith, ”when I was at Neeag'ra Falls----” By the time the story was finished the company had come in view of the old shanty.

The sick man was seated in the doorway. His figure had a despairing droop, his eyes were fixed on the forest of dead tree-trunks. There was something of a corresponding dreariness in his whole att.i.tude, as though the waters of tribulation had gone over his life and left it a veritable Drowned Land, its hopes engulfed, its greenness dead.

The company fell silent as they pa.s.sed through the bars that served as a gateway and went up the slope to the shanty door. So absorbed was the man in his reflections that he did not notice any one approaching until the minister's foot struck a stone. He turned sharply and arose.

Mr. Scott had visited him twice as he lay in bed, and the man recognized him with a brief word. But there was no cordiality in the way he put out his hand to meet the minister's proffered one, and he took no notice whatever of the others.

”Good-evening,” said Mr. Scott pleasantly. ”Some of the neighbors thought they would like to drop in and give you a word of welcome to the village. I'm glad to see you are looking much better.”

”I am quite better.” The man's answer was curt and dry.

He did not offer his visitors a seat, nor ask them to enter, but stood there, bent, shabby and forlorn, and looked at the minister with haggard eyes that besought him to go. But the look only made him more anxious to stay.

”Do you mind if we sit a moment?” he asked, glancing at an old log near the doorway.

The man hesitated. ”It is a poor thing to refuse a welcome to any man,” he said at last, with a quiet dignity, ”and in the years that I had a fit roof to my head none was turned away; but”--he paused, as though he disliked to say the words--”but I have spent my life alone these last few years, and I find it better. So I am afraid I cannot offer you a seat, sir.”

The minister was as much surprised by the stately manner in which the words were delivered as by the astonis.h.i.+ng declaration itself. Yet he could not feel angry at his dismissal; the man's eyes awakened only compa.s.sion.

”But it is not good for us to shut ourselves away from our fellow-men,”

he said gently. ”We miss much happiness and kindness.”

”And cruelty,” added John McIntyre, with sharp bitterness. ”And as to its being good for me, or otherwise, that matters nothing to any one.”

”Ah, but that is where you are mistaken,” said the minister eagerly.

”It matters very much to our Father. We are very precious in His sight. The Almighty----”

He was interrupted by a harsh laugh.

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