son, and to that end directed his steps. He was led
here, here, sir, to your home, and you--you told him the story of
his son's crime."

The shepherd paused. A hoarse whisper came from the giant in the
chair, "You--you, Dad, your--name is--"

The other threw out his hand, as if to guard himself, and shrank
back; "Hush, oh hush! I have no name but the name by which you
know me. The man who bore that name is dead. In all his pride of
intellect and position he died. Your prayers for vengeance were
answered, sir. You--you killed him; killed him as truly as if you
had plunged a knife into his heart; and--you--did--well."

Aunt Mollie moaned.

"Is that all?" growled the mountaineer.

"All! God, no! I--I must go on. I must tell you how the man you
killed staid in the hills and was born again. There was nothing
else for him to do but stay in the hills. With the shame and
horror of his boy's disgrace on his heart, he could not go back--
back to the city, his friends and his church--to the old life. He
knew that he could not hope to deceive them. He was not skilled in
hiding things. Every kind word in praise of himself, or in praise
of his son, would have been keenest torture. He was a coward; he
dared not go back. His secret would have driven him mad, and he
would have ended it all as his son had done. His only hope for
peace was to stay here; here on the very spot where the wrong was
done, and to do what little he could to atone for the crime.

"At first it was terrible; the long, lonely nights with no human
friend near; the weight of shame; the memories; and the lonely
wind--always the wind--in the trees--her voice, Pete said, calling
for him to come. God, sir, I wonder the man did not die under his
punishment!

"But God is good, Mr. Matthews. God is good and merciful. Every
day out on the range with the sheep, the man felt the spirit of
the hills, and little by little their strength and their peace
entered into his life. The minister learned here, sir, what he had
not learned in all his theological studies. He learned to know
God, the God of these mountains. The hills taught him, and they
came at last to stand between him and the trouble from which he
had fled. The nights were no longer weary and long. He was never
alone. The voices in the wilderness became friendly voices, for he
learned their speech, and the poor girl ceased to call in the
wailing wind. Then Dr. Coughlan came, and--"

Again the shepherd stopped.