Those words gave the man a new sense of comfort. If he could have done
so he would have embraced his son and covered his face with kisses.
The sun had sunk low and they were entering the edge of the night and
the woodland. Soon the boy fell asleep. The silence of the illimitable
sky seemed to be flooding down and delightful sounds were drifting on
its current. They had passed the inn, long ago and walls of fir and pine
were on either side of them. Gordon put into a deep cove, stopping under
the pine-trees with his bow on a sand-bar. Then he let himself down,
stretching his legs on the canoe bottom and lying back on his blanket.
For a long time he lay there thinking. He had been a man of some
refinement, and nature had punished him, after an old fashion, for the
abuse of it with extreme sensitiveness. He had come to the Adirondacks
from a New England city and married and gone into business. At first he
had prospered, and then he had begun to go down.
He had been a lover of music and a reader of the poets. As he lay
thinking in the early dusk he heard the notes of the wood-thrush. That
bird was like a welcoming trumpeter before the gate of a palace; it
bade him be at home. Above all he could hear the water song of Fiddler's
Falls--the tremulous, organ bass of rock caverns upon which the river
drummed as it fell, the chorus of the on-rushing stream and great
overtones in the timber.
Sound and rhythm seemed to be full of that familiar strain--so like a
solemn warning:
[Illustration: 0038]
A long time he sat hearing it. He began to feel ashamed of his folly and
awakened to the inspiration of a new purpose. He rose and looked about
him.
When you enter a house you begin to feel the heart of its owner.
Something in the walls and furnishings, something in the air--is it a
vibration which dead things have gathered from the living?--bids you
welcome or warns you to depart. It is the true voice of the master.
As Gordon came into the wilderness he felt like one returning to his
father's house. In this great castle the heart of its Master seemed to
speak to him with a tenderness fatherly and unmistakable.
A subtle force like that we find in houses built with hands now bade him
welcome. "Lie down and rest, my son," it seemed to say. "Let not your
heart be troubled. Here in your Father's house are forgiveness and
plenty."
He put away the thought of death. He covered the sleeping boy and girl,
pushed his canoe forward upon the sand, and lying back comfortably soon
fell asleep.
He awoke refreshed at sunrise. The great, green fountain of life, in
the midst of which he had rested, now seemed to fill his heart with its
uplifting joy and energy and persistence.
He built a fire under the trees and broiled the meat and made toast and
coffee. He lifted the children in his arms and kissed them with unusual
tenderness.
"To-day we'll see Uncle Silas," Gordon assured them.
"My Uncle Silas!" said the boy, fondly.
"He's mine, too," Sue declared.
"He's both of our'n," Socky allowed, as they began to eat their
breakfast.