and, rising
clear above the low breathed tones, yet in perfect harmony, came a
whip-poor-will's plaintive call floating up from the darkness
below; the sweet cooing of a wood-dove in a tree on the ridge, and
the chirping of a cricket in a nearby crevice of the ledge. Like
shadowy spirits, the bats flitted here and there in the gathering
gloom. The two on the mountain's shoulder felt themselves alone
above it all; above it all, yet still a part of all.

Then the moon looked over the mountain behind them turning Mutton
Hollow into a wondrous sea of misty light out of which the higher
hills lifted their heads like fairy islands. The girl spoke,
"Come, Matt; we must go now. Help me down."

He slipped from his seat and stood beside the rock with uplifted
arms. Sammy leaned forward and placed her hands upon his
shoulders. He felt her breath upon his forehead. The next instant
he held her close.

So they went home along the trail that is nobody knows how old,
and the narrow path that was made by those who walked one before
the other, they found wide enough for two.

Dad Howitt, returning to the ranch, saw them coming so in the
moonlight, and slipped aside from the path into the deeper
shadows. As they passed, the old shepherd, scholar and poet stood
with bowed, uncovered head. When they were gone and their low
voices were no longer heard, he said aloud, "What God hath joined;
what God hath joined."

And this way runs the trail that lies along the higher, sunlit
hills where those who journey see afar and the light lingers even
when the day is done.

CHAPTER XLV.

SOME YEARS LATER.

A wandering artist, searching for new fields, found his way into
the Ozark country. One day, as he painted in the hills, a flock of
sheep came over the ridge through a low gap, and worked slowly
along the mountain side. A few moments later, the worker at the
easel lifted his eyes from the canvas to find himself regarded by
an old man in the dress of a native.

"Hello, uncle. Fine day," said the artist shortly, his eyes again
upon his picture.

"The God of these hills gives us many such, young sir, and all His
days are good."

The painter's hand paused between palette and canvas, and his face
was turned toward the speaker in wonder. Every word was perfect in
accent of the highest culture, and the deep musical tone of the
voice was remarkable in one with the speaker's snowy hair and
beard. The young man arose to his feet. "I