self the business of
reply.

"It may be," said old Sylvester, "that some of us are disquieted, for be
it known to you that one of the children of this household is absent
from among us for causes which may well disturb our thoughts."

"I have heard the story," the young man continued, "and if I know it
aright, these are the truths of that history: There were two men,
friends, once in this neighborhood, Mr. Barbary the preacher, and your
grandson Elbridge Peabody. Something like a year ago the preacher
suddenly disappeared from this region, and the report arose and
constantly spread that he had fallen by the hand of his friend, that
grandchild of yours. It began in a cloudy whisper, afar off, but swelled
from day to day, from hour to hour, till it overshadowed this whole
region, and not the least of the darkness it caused was on this spot,
where this ancient homestead stands, and where the young man had grown
and lived from the hour of his birth. He saw coldness and avoidance on
the highway; he was shrunk from on sabbath-mornings, and by children;
but this was little and could be borne--the world was against him: but
when he saw an aged face averted," he looked at old Sylvester steadily,
"and a mother's countenance sad and hostile--"

"Sad--but not hostile," the widow murmured.

"Sorrowful and troubled, at least," the young man rejoined, "his life,
for all of happiness, was at an end. He must cease to live or he must
restore the ancient sunshine which had lighted the windows of the home
of his boyhood. He knew that his friend had _not_ fallen by his hand;
that he still lived, but in a far distant place which none but a long
and weary journey could reach."

"He should have declared as much," interposed the old patriarch.

"No, sir; his word would have been but as the frail leaf blown idly from
the autumn-bough; nothing but the living presence of his friend could
silence the voice of the accuser. He rose up and departed, without
counsel of any, trusting only in God and his own strength; he bore with
him neither bag nor baggage, scrip nor scrippage--not even a change of
raiment; but with a handful of fruit and the humble provision which his
good mother had furnished for the harvest-field, he set forth; day and
night he journeyed on the truck he knew his friend had taken to that far
country, toiling in the fields to secure food and lodging for the night,
and some scant aids to carry him from place to place. Pushing on