mmit of the mountain.

A great rock stood at the foot of the lonely tree. Beneath it Leighton
dug with ax and hands. He tore branches from the tree and spread them
within. Upon the fresh, green couch he laid the body of his boy. He fell
upon his knees before it and tried to pray, but could not.

"O, Death," he groaned, "to this young soul hast thou been kind." Then
with many stones they closed the tomb.

Leighton looked wistfully about him. He was seized by the primitive
desire of man to leave some visible sign of overwhelming grief. His eyes
rose above the rock to the lonely tree. Grasping the ax, he climbed the
tree. High above the mountain-top he cut its stem. Then limb after limb
fell crashing to the earth until only two were left. Out one and then
the other he clambered and cut them off. The lonely tree was no more; in
its place stood a mighty cross.

From far away across the plain, John, the Courier, looked back. His keen
eyes fell upon the mountain. He stopped and stared.

"Ah, Sorcerer," he murmured, "hast thou now a heart? What power has
crowned thy brow with the holy cross? Behold! one arm points to the
rising sun and one to its setting. I shall no longer call thee Sorcerer,
for thou art become the Guide."

At the edge of the plain stretched a line of hills. Within them was a
little valley that looked toward the distant mountain. Leighton
purchased the valley from its owner, Dom Francisco, who prized it
lightly beside his vast herds of cattle.

At the top of the valley, and facing the mountain, Leighton built his
new abode, four walls and a roof of homemade tiles. When it was
finished, he looked upon its ugliness and said, "The Lord hath crushed
my heart to infinite depths. Let us call this place Nadir."

CHAPTER VIII

The Leightons, who settled at Nadir after a long year of pilgrimage,
looked, back upon the happy years at Consolation Cottage as the dead
might look back upon existence. They were changed indeed. Ann's skin had
lost the pale pink of transplanted Northern blood. Her sweet face had
almost lost the dignity of sorrow. It was lined, weather-beaten, at
times almost vacant. The Reverend Orme's black mane had suddenly turned
white in streaks. A perpetual scowl knitted his brows. To mammy's broad
countenance, built for vast smiles, had come a look of plaintive
despair.

Natalie and Lewis were at the weedy age of nine. It was natural that
they should have changed, but their change had