hear a bird warbling.

Long ago this spot had been his mother's favorite refuge from her busy day
in the house. She had almost always come alone, but sometimes Roger
stealing down would watch her sitting motionless and staring in among the
trees. Years later in his reading he had come upon the phrase, "sacred
grove," and at once he had thought of the birches. And sitting here where
she had been, he felt again that boundless faith in life resplendent,
conquering death, and serenely sweeping him on--into what he did not fear.
For this had been his mother's faith. Sometimes in the deepening dusk he
could almost see her sitting here.

"This faith in you has come from me. This is my memory living on in you, my
son, though you do not know. How many times have I held you back, how many
times have I urged you on, roused you up or soothed you, made you hope or
fear or dream, through memories of long ago. For you were once a part of
me. I moulded you, my little son. And as I have been to you, so you will be
to your children. In their lives, too, we shall be there--silent and
invisible, the dim strong figures of the past. For this is the power of
families, this is the mystery of birth."

Suddenly he started. What was it that had thrilled him so? Only a tall dark
fir in the birches. But looming in there like a shadowy phantom it had
recalled a memory of a dusk far back in his boyhood, when seeing a shadow
just like this he had thought it a ghost in very truth and had run for the
house like a rabbit! How terribly real that fright had been! The
recollection suddenly became so vivid in his mind, that as though a veil
had been lifted he felt the living presence here, close by his side, of a
small barefoot mountain lad, clothed in sober homespun gray, but filled
with warm desires, dreams and curiosities, exploring upon every hand, now
marching boldly forward, now stealing up so cautiously, now galloping away
like mad! "I was once a child." To most of us these are mere words. To few
is it ever given to attain so much as even a glimpse into the warm and
quivering soul of that little stranger of long ago. We do not know how we
were made.

"I moulded you, my little son. And as I have been to you, so you will be to
your children. In their lives, too, we shall be there."

Darker, darker grew the copse and the chill of the night descended. But to
Roger's eyes there was no gloom. For he had seen a vision.

CHAPTER XV

On his retu