n as he entered. The sound of their
crunching, the sweet smell of the hay, seemed part of the pervading rest
and content about him. His father came up from the gloom of the barn,
carrying a pail of milk. He glanced at the boy.

"I thought I'd do the chores to-night, son. You don't get a vacation
very often. You ought to rest."

"Oh!" The boy felt sudden embarrassment. He had a queer pity for his
father. He almost wished that he could have done the chores himself.

It was dark as they walked slowly to the house. In the dusk of the
east, the moon appeared red on the rim of the horizon. Everything seemed
asleep, yet infinite life still vibrated through its sleep. Out of the
oak-grove sounded the hopeless lament of the turtle-dove, voicing the
mystery and sadness of the night. From the farm to the north came the
faint cry of someone calling the cows, "Co-o, boss; co-o, boss!" A
moment, the boy felt as though it were the wonder and music of the
horizon that called. Then he smiled at the idea.

His father stopped on the porch. The boy knew what his father was
thinking, knew with a wave of pity and understanding. It seemed to him
there, in the darkness, that suddenly he was able to comprehend the
shadows which he had not known before in his boyish dream of life.

He took off his hat. The night wind was cool. How intense the night was!
Nature seemed a living and beautiful power, ever-veiled but always near.
For a moment his father rested his hand upon the boy's shoulder. The boy
moved closer to him.

THE END OF THE PATH[13]

BY NEWBOLD NOYES

From _Every Week_

[13] Copyright, 1915, by Every Week Corporation. Copyright, 1916, by
Newbold Noyes.

Set far back in the hills that have thrown their wall of misty purple
about the laughing blue of Lake Como, on a sheer cliff three thousand
feet above the lake, stands a little weather-stained church. Beneath it
lie the two villages of Cadenabbia and Menaggio; behind and up are rank
on rank of shadowy mountains, sharply outlined against the sky,--the
foothills leading back to the giant Alps.

The last tiny cream-colored house of the villages stands a full two
miles this side of the tortuous path that winds up the face of the
chrome-colored cliff. Once a year, in a creeping procession of black
and white, the natives make a pilgrimage to the little church to pray
for rain in the dry season. Otherwise it is rarely visited.

Blagden climbed slowly up the narrow pa