ngs to him. I can't drive, myself, and I don't like to hire
anybody; aside from its being an expense, it would make talk. Mother
Dodd and Abby won't make talk outside the family, but I suppose it will
have to be known."

"Mr. Dodd didn't want any mystery made over it," Stephen Wheaton said.

"There ain't going to be any mystery. Christopher has got a right to
live awhile on Silver Mountain if he wants to," returned Myrtle with her
odd, defiant air.

"But I will take the things up there to him, if you will let me have a
horse and wagon," said Stephen.

"I will, and be glad. When will you go?"

"To-morrow."

"I'll have them ready," said Myrtle.

After the minister had gone she went into her own bedroom and cried a
little and made the moan of a loving woman sadly bewildered by the ways
of man, but loyal as a soldier. Then she dried her tears and began to
pack a load for the wagon.

The next morning early, before the dew was off the young grass, Stephen
Wheaton started with the wagon-load, driving the great gray farm-horse
up the side of Silver Mountain. The road was fairly good, making many
winds in order to avoid steep ascents, and Stephen drove slowly. The
gray farmhorse was sagacious. He knew that an unaccustomed hand held
the lines; he knew that of a right he should be treading the plowshares
instead of climbing a mountain on a beautiful spring morning.

But as for the man driving, his face was radiant, his eyes of young
manhood lit with the light of the morning. He had not owned it, but he
himself had sometimes chafed under the dull necessity of his life, but
here was excitement, here was exhilaration. He drew the sweet air into
his lungs, and the deeper meaning of the spring morning into his soul.
Christopher Dodd interested him to the point of enthusiasm. Not even the
uneasy consideration of the lonely, mystified woman in Dodd's deserted
home could deprive him of admiration for the man's flight into the
spiritual open. He felt that these rights of the man were of the
highest, and that other rights, even human and pitiful ones, should give
them the right of way.

It was not a long drive. When he reached the shack--merely a one-roomed
hut, with a stovepipe chimney, two windows, and a door--Christopher
stood at the entrance and seemed to illuminate it. Stephen for a minute
doubted his identity. Christopher had lost middle age in a day's time.
He had the look of a triumphant youth. Blue smoke was curling fro