y the river, for on such a
threshold one casts off fear. Danger might lurk about us in the
shadows of the woods, but never out there in the broad day under the
kindly eye of God. Nathan might gallop through tangled brush, but here
even his mood changed and he walked sedately. Even the strange road
was friendly to me, for it led into a friendly land. It descended the
ridge, passed the mill, rose again over a hill; there at the crest I
lost it, but only for a moment while it crossed the hollow and came
into view on the easy slope beyond, going straight into the valley's
heart and beckoning me on.

"It's all right now, Penelope," I cried, and I pointed to the two
steeples of Malcolmville, and then led her eyes to the right to a long
stone house, almost hidden in a clump of giant oaks. I could find it
by our barn, for our barn would dominate any land. In the distance it
seemed a mighty marble pile, lifting its white walls into the blue, and
then ambitiously reaching higher with red-tipped cupolas. The
Colosseum to-day is not half so large as our barn when placed in memory
beside it. So there was pride in my voice as I spoke.

"Yon's our home, little 'un, and yon's our barn, and just the other
side is the meadow and the creek where I'll take you fishing."

The splendid promise of fishing had little effect on Penelope's
spirits. Such a prospect as I offered, such a home, a Babylonian
palace beside the cabin in the clearing, with the added joys of the
meadow and the creek, should have compensated in part, at least, for
the temporary loss of her father, and I was much surprised that she
gave no sign of pleasure. She made no answer even, and I had no
evidence of her nearness to me but the two brown hands clasped before
me and the brush of the ribbon against my neck. So we rode on in
silence, save when I whistled, and I did not whistle very much, for my
thoughts were too busy with the morning's adventure and forecasting the
days to come. My mind was wonderfully clear about the future; the way
seemed very easy. Thereafter I should listen to warnings. I had
brought myself to unpleasant passes by a reckless disregard of
warnings, and now if Mr. Pound told me to beware, or Stacy Shunk to
look out, or Miss Spinner to remember Absalom, I should heed their
admonitions, yet those unpleasant passes became in retrospect
delightful adventures, and I congratulated myself that I was coming
through them with so much credit. T