Little Fellow put the small canoe to rights, and I had soon joined the others at the Sutherland homestead. But for two days the priest lay as one dead, neither moaning nor speaking. On the morning of the third, though he neither opened his eyes nor gave sign of recognition, he asked for bread. Then my heart gave a great bound of hope—for surely a man desiring food is recovering!—and I sent Frances Sutherland to him and went out among the trees above the river.
That sense of resilient relief which a man feels on discharging an impossible task, or throwing off too heavy a burden, came over me. Miriam was rescued, the priest restored, and I dowered with God's best gift—the love of a noble, fair woman. Hard duty's compulsion no longer spurred me; but my thoughts still drove in a wild whirl. There was a glassy reflection of a faded moon on the water, and daybreak came rustling through the trees which nodded and swayed overhead. A twittering of winged things arose in the branches, first only the cadence of a robin's call, an oriole's flute-whistle, the stirring wren's mellow note. Then, suddenly, out burst from the leafed sprays a chorus of song that might have rivaled angels' melodies. The robin's call was a gust of triumph. The oriole's strain lilted exultant and a thousand throats gushed out golden notes.
"Now God be praised for love and beauty and goodness—and above all—for Frances—for Frances," were the words that every bird seemed to be singing; though, indeed, the interpretation was only my heart's response. I know not how it was, but I found myself with hat off and bowed head, feeling a gratitude which words could not frame—for the splendor of the universe and the glory of God.
"Rufus," called a voice more musical to my ear than any bird song; and Frances was at my side with a troubled face. "He's conscious and talking, but I can't understand what he means. Neither can Miriam and Eric. I wish you would come in."
I found the priest pale as the pillows against which he leaned, with glistening eyes gazing fixedly high above the lintel of the door. Miriam, with her snow-white hair and sad-lined face, was fanning the air before him. At the other side stood Eric with the boy in his arms. Mr. Sutherland and I entered the room abreast. For a moment his wistful gaze fell on the group about the bed. First he looked at Eric and the child, then at Miriam, and from Miriam to me, then back to the child. The meaning of it all dawned, gleamed and broke in full knowledge upon him; and his face shone as one transfigured.
"The Lord was with us," he muttered, stroking Miriam's white hair. "Praise be to God! Now I can die in peace——"
"No, you can't, Father," I cried impetuously.
"Ye irriverent ruffian," he murmured with a flash of old mirth and a gentle pressure of my hand. "Ye irriverent ruffian. Peace! Peace! I die in peace," and again the wistful eyes gazed above the door.
"Rufus," he whispered softly, "where are they taking me?"
"Taking you?" I asked in surprise; but Frances Sutherland's finger was on her lips, and I stopped myself before saying more.