lined that way. She's
dhrawn eleven blanks, maybe she's dhrawn a prize, afther all; who
knows."

Old McCabe, the road mender, overtook us and for the rest of the journey
I was seen but not heard.

That night I sat by her side in the chimney-corner and recited the
events of the day. It had been full of magic, mystery and meaning to me.
The meaning was a little clearer to me after the recital.

"Withero sometimes talks like a ha'penny book wi' no laves in it," she
said. "But most of the time he's nearer the facts than most of us. It
isn't all blether, dear."

We sat up late, long after the others had gone to sleep. She read softly
a chapter of "Pilgrim's Progress," the chapter in which he is relieved
of his burden. I see now that woodcut of a gate and over the gate the
words: "Knock and it shall be opened unto you." She had read it before.
I was familiar with it, but in the light of that day's experience it had
a new meaning. She warned me, however, that my name was neither Pilgrim
nor Withero, and in elucidating her meaning she explained the phrase,
"The wind bloweth where it listeth." I learned to listen for the sound
thereof and I wondered from whence it came, not only the wind of the
heavens, but the spirit that moved men in so many directions.

The last act of that memorable night was the making of a picture. It
took many years to find out its meaning, but every stroke of the brush
is as plain to me now as they were then.

"Ye'll do somethin' for me?"

"Aye, aanything in th' world."

"Ye won't glunch nor ask questions?"

"Not a question."

"Shut yer eyes an' stan' close t' th' table." I obeyed. She put into
each hand a smooth stick with which Jamie had smoothed the soles of
shoes.

"Jist for th' now these are the handles of a plow. Keep yer eyes shut
tight. Ye've seen a maan plowin' a field?"

"Aye."

"Think that ye see a long, long field. Ye're plowin' it. The other end
is so far away ye can't see it. Ye see a wee bit of the furrow, jist a
wee bit. Squeeze th' plow handles." I squeezed.

"D'ye see th' trees yonder?"

"Aye."

"An' th' birds pickin' in th' furrow?"

"Ay-e."

She took the sticks away and gently pushed me on a stool and told me I
might open my eyes.

"That's quare," I said.

"Listen, dear, ye've put yer han' t' th' plow; ye must niver, niver take
it away. All through life ye'll haave thim plow handles in yer han's an'
ye'll be goin' down th' furrow. Ye'll crack a stone here