"The trouble with people who are unhappy, Mister," he said, "is that
they won't try God."

I could not answer my companion. There seemed, indeed, nothing more to
be said. All my own speculative incomings and outgoings--how futile
they seemed compared with this!

Near the foot of the hill there is a little-bridge. It is a pleasant,
quiet spot. My companion stopped and put down his bag.

"What do you think," said he, "I should paint here?"

"Well," I said, "you know better than I do. What would _you_ paint?"

He looked around at me and then smiled as though he had a quiet little
joke with himself.

"When in doubt," he said, "I always paint 'God is Love,' I'm sure of
that. Of course 'Hell yawns' and 'Repent ye' have to be painted--near
towns--but I much rather paint 'God is Love.'"

I left him kneeling there on the bridge, the bit of carpet under his
knees, his two little cans at his side. Half way up the hill I turned to
look back. He lifted his hand with the paint brush in it, and I waved
mine in return. I have never seen him since, though it will be a long,
long time before the sign of him disappears from our roadsides.

At the top of the hill, near the painted boulder, I climbed the fence,
pausing a moment on the top rail to look off across the hazy
countryside, warm with the still sweetness of autumn. In the distance,
above the crown of a little hill, I could see the roof of my own
home--and the barn near it--and the cows feeding quietly in the
pastures.

IX

THE GUNSMITH

Harriet and I had the first intimation of what we have since called the
"gunsmith problem" about ten days ago. It came to us, as was to be
expected, from that accomplished spreader of burdens, the Scotch
Preacher. When he came in to call on us that evening after supper I
could see that he had something important on his mind; but I let him get
to it in his own way.

"David," he said finally, "Carlstrom, the gunsmith, is going home to
Sweden."

"At last!" I exclaimed.

Dr. McAlway paused a moment and then said hesitatingly:

"He _says_ he is going."

Harriet laughed. "Then it's all decided," she said; "he isn't going."

"No," said the Scotch Preacher, "it's not decided--yet."

"Dr. McAlway hasn't made up his mind," I said, "whether Carlstrom is to
go or not."

But the Scotch Preacher was in no mood for joking.

"David," he said, "did you ever know anything about the homesickness of
the foreigner?"

He paused a mome