"That is a sight I shall never forget, and one I shall try to see often," Darrell said, as they retraced their steps to the cabin.
"You will never find it twice the same," Mr. Britton answered; "Nature varies her gifts so that to her true lovers they will not pall."
After breakfast they again strolled out into the sunlight, Mr. Britton seating himself upon a projecting ledge of granite, while Darrell threw himself down
upon the mountain grass, his head resting within his clasped hands.
"What an ideal spot for my work!" he exclaimed.
Mr. Britton smiled. "I fear you would never accomplish much with me here. I must return to the city soon, or you will degenerate into a confirmed idler."
"I have often thought," said Darrell, reflectively, "that when I have completed this work I would like to attempt a novel. It seems as though there is plenty of material out here for a strong one. Think of the lives one comes in contact with almost daily—stranger than fiction, every one!"
"Your own, for instance," Mr. Britton suggested.
"Yours also," Darrell replied, in low tones; "the story of your life, if rightly told, would do more to uplift men's souls than nine-tenths of the sermons."
"The story of my life, my son, will never be told to any ear other than your own, and I trust to your love for me that it will go no farther."