“Why?” questioned Donald.
“Gittin’ too thickly settled. I feel that I ain’t got room to breathe. I’m goin’ way back into the Cariboo somewhere so’s I kin be by myself.”
The race of mediæval hermits is not dead. The spirit that led the first pioneers into the forest guides others there to-day. There are men whose souls long for a place untamed, who yearn to breathe the wild free air. They want a home straight from the hands of the Creator, unspoiled by man. They may be trappers, who brave cold and hardships to clothe milady in warm furs; they may be prospectors, who search out the hidden gold for others to use. Whatever they may be, these hardy men blaze the trail for others to follow.
When Donald told the trapper of the coming wedding the old man’s eyes softened. “I’m glad. It’s jest right. I hoped you two would git married.” He shook hands gravely, then clucked to his horse.
“Good-bye, Connie! Good-bye, ol’ timer! God bless ye!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Donald and Connie stood watching the patient old figure as he trudged behind his cayuse. At a turn of the trail he stopped and for a long interval gazed back at the log cabin by the stream, which had been his home for so many years. He waved his hand in farewell, then horse and man disappeared from view.
When Donald and Connie reached the bluff the sun had sunk in the crimson west, leaving a rich afterglow that spread across the horizon from west to east, the rich colours merging by slow degrees into that pure pearl-grey which makes the long and lovely twilight of the British Columbia mountains. Down on the lake mists were gathering, but in the upper sky and on the glaciers a vivid orange glow still lingered. The trees stood stiff and motionless in the quiet air. From afar, subdued but clear, came the hoot of a blue-grouse, and from mountain gorges came the faint sighing sound of distant waterfalls. Sweet and pungent odours of wild flowers came from the woods about them. A star of silver brilliancy sparkled suddenly out in the sky over the massive snow-clad peaks.
“Venus,” whispered Connie.
Donald’s gaze swept from the camp, nestled at their feet, to the darkening heavens, to the star of love, then down to the girl by his side.
There are moments in the lives of all men—regardless of creed or religion—when they feel the nearness of God. Such a moment came to Donald. He uttered no sound, yet his soul was crying out its great thankfulness.