He could not go on. The light was gone
from the sky and he felt the blackness of the night. But against
the stars he could still see the crown of the mountain where his
son lay. When he had gathered strength, he continued, saying
simply, "Dr. Coughlan came, and--last night we learned that my son
was not dead but living."

Again that growl like the growl of a wild beast came from the
mountaineer. Silently Mr. Howitt prayed. "Go on," came the command
in hoarse tones.

In halting, broken words, the shepherd faltered through the rest
of his story as he told how, while using the cabin under the cliff
as a studio, the artist had discovered the passage to the old
Dewey cave; how, since his supposed death, he had spent the
summers at the scene of his former happiness; how he had met his
son roaming the hills at night, and had been able to have the boy
with him much of the time; how he had been wounded the night Jim
Lane was killed; and finally how Pete had led them to his bedside.

"He is dying yonder. Dr. Coughlan is with him--and Pete--Pete is
there, too. I--I came for you. He is calling for you. I came to
tell you. All that a man may suffer here, he has suffered, sir.
Your prayer has been doubly answered, Mr. Matthews. Both father
and son are dead. The name--the old name is perished from the face
of the earth. For Christ's dear sake, forgive my boy, and let him
go. For my sake, sir, I--I can bear no more."

Who but He that looketh upon the heart of man could know the
battle that was fought in the soul of that giant of the hills? He
uttered no sound. He sat in his seat as if made of stone; save
once, when he walked to the end of the porch to stand with
clenched hands and passion shaken frame, facing the dark clump of
pines on the hill.

Slowly the moon climbed over the ridge and lighted the scene. The
mountaineer returned to his chair. All at once he raised his head,
and, leaning forward, looked long and earnestly at the old
shepherd, where he sat crouching like a convict awaiting sentence.

From down the mill road came voices and the sound of horses' feet.
Old Matt started, turning his head a moment to listen. The horses
stopped at the lower gate.

"The children," said Aunt Mollie softly. "The children. Grant, Oh,
Grant! Sammy and our boy."

Then the shepherd felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and a voice, that
had in it something new and strange, said, "Dad,--my brother,--Daniel,
I--I ain't got no education, an