The wind, veering, came bitter cold; the rain hardened to hail; the
clouds, changed to brittle nets of frost, and shaken to shreds by
the rough wind, fell hissing in a scatter of snow. Next morning
when Allen opened his door the wind was gone, the sky clear. Brier
Pond, lately covered with clear ice, lay under a blanket of snow.
He hurried across the pond, his dog following. Near the far shore
was a bare spot on the ice cut by one of the sleigh-runners. Up in
the woods, opposite, was the Moss Trail. Sunlight fell on the
hills above him. He halted, looking up at the tree-tops. Twig,
branch, and trunk glowed with the fire of diamonds through a lacy
necking of hoar frost. Every tree had put on a jacket of ice and
become as a fountain of prismatic hues. Here and there a dead pine
rose like a spire of crystal; domes of deep-coloured glass and
towers of jasper were as the landmarks of a city. Allen climbed
the shore, walking slowly. He could see no track of sleigh or dog
or any living thing. A frosted, icy tangle of branches arched the
trail--a gateway of this great, crystal city of the woods. He
entered, listening as he walked. Branches of hazel and dogwood
were like jets of water breaking into clear, halted drops and foamy
spray above him. He went on, looking up at this long sky-window of
the woods. In the deep silence he could hear his heart beating.
"Sport," .said he to the dog, "show me the way;" but the dog only
wagged his tail.
Allen returned to the house.
"Wife," said he, "look at the woods yonder. They are like the city
of holy promise. 'Behold I will lay thy stones with fair colours
and thy foundations with sapphires, and I will make thy windows of
agate.'"
"Did you find the track of the little sleigh?" said she.
"No," he answered, "nor will any man, for all paths are hidden."
"Theron--may we keep the boy?" she inquired.
"I think it is the will of God," said Allen.
The boy grew and throve in mind and body. For a time he prattled
in a language none who saw him were able to comprehend. But he
learned English quickly and soon forgot the jargon of his babyhood.
The shadows of mystery that fell over his coming lengthened far
into his life and were deepened by others that fell across them.
Before he could have told the story, all memory of whom he left or
whence he came had been swept away. It was a house of riddles
where Allen dwelt--a rude thing of logs and ladders and a low roof
and two rooms. Yet one ladder led high to glories no pen may
describe. The Allens, with this rude shelter, found delight in
dreams of an eternal home whose splendour and luxury would have
made them miserable here below. What a riddle was this! And then,
as to the boy Sid, there was the riddle of his coming, and again
that of his character, which latter was, indeed, not easy to solve.
There were few books and no learning in that home. For three
winters Trove tramped a trail to the schoolhouse two miles away,
and had no further schooling until he was a big, blond boy of
fifteen, with red cheeks, and eyes large, blue, and discerning, and
hands hardened to the axe helve. He had then discovered the beauty
of the woods and begun to study the wild folk that live in holes
and thickets. He had a fine face. You would have called him
handsome, but not they among whom he lived. With them handsome was
as handsome did, and the face of a man, if it were cleanly, was
never a proper cause of blame or compliment. But there was that in
his soul, which even now had waked the mother's wonder and set
forth a riddle none were able to solve.