blacksmith, leading the minister's wife, and
growing more cheerful each moment as he neared his dinner. The rest
had arranged themselves as best suited their inclinations, and not far
down the line moved a happy quartette--Marjorie and Malcolm, oblivious
to everything but each other, and behind them Sandy McQuarry and the
stately Duke; and a glance at the faces of the four would have puzzled
an observer to guess which pair was at that moment experiencing more of
the joy of youth and love.

Down the grassy aisle the happy procession passed, through the flecking
light and shade, where the long, white tables were laid beneath the
apple boughs. And as they moved, a bluebird, swinging far above them
in the sunlight, caroled forth a joyous marriage hymn. And down below,
the little blue silk gown, of the same shade as his dazzling plumage,
covered a heart just as happy.

CHAPTER XIX

THE HERMIT SINGS AGAIN

Then twilight falls with the touch
Of a hand that soothes and stills,
And a swamp-robin sings into light
The lone white star of the hills.
Alone in the dusk he sings,
And a burden of sorrow and wrong
Is lifted up from the earth
And carried away in song.
--BLISS CARMAN.

John McIntyre, still dressed in the fine black suit Martin had given
him for the wedding, was slowly walking up the old swamp road toward
the ravine. The festivities of the day, and the gracious manner of the
Duke, had so wrought upon Sandy McQuarry that he had, in a moment of
reckless extravagance, bidden his watchman take a rest that night,
instead of returning to the mill. So Tim and he were going off on an
important expedition. They had promised Martin that before he and
Arabella returned they would walk down past the Drowned Lands and take
a look at the fine new farm he had bought, and which they were all
three to work together. And Tim's impatience demanded that they go
this evening, for he had already laid great plans for sowing the entire
three hundred acres with prize pumpkins, to be raised for the show.

John McIntyre moved along lingeringly, watching for the little, limping
figure of his boy. He could see far up the green vista of the ravine,
where the shades of evening were gathering. He smiled as he thought of
the name the queer Englishman had given it; a Treasure Valley, indeed,
the place had proved to him, for here, after long groping in darkness,
he had found again the treasure of life.