"It was meant for everyone who, in all future times, should endeavour ever so humbly to tread in the steps of our great Exemplar, the Lord Jesus Christ."
That was all that passed just then. The "boss" was obliged to turn to his men, and dismiss them to their work with a few pointed directions. But when Mr. Morton was ready to ride away, after having looked round the place where his little son had lived so long, thanked the Davidsons for their kindness to him, and seen the affectionate way in which they and some of the other men parted from him, the saw-miller came up hastily and wrung his hand, saying, "Good-bye. I can understand now how it is Cyril became what he is. I shall think of your words after you have gone."
"Good-bye. God bless you!" said the grateful father.
Cyril threw his arms round the saw-miller's neck and kissed him for the first and last time on his hard, bronzed face. "Good-bye, dear Mr. Ellison," he said, "I shall write you ever such long letters from England. And I'll tell you all about how Blackie likes the old country. I can't thank you enough for giving me Blackie. I can't indeed." For he estimated the gift of Blackie more highly than any other kindness the great saw-miller had shown him.
Then he had to follow his father, who had already ridden on, and the saw-miller stood looking after them until they were out of sight among the trees.
"I'm afraid, boss," remarked Ben Davidson, meeting him as he crossed the yard to his office, "that we shall have snow again, after all, before long. It has begun to grow darker during the last five minutes," and he scanned the sky with a troubled face.
"Well, I hope it won't come until they have arrived at the station. I did not think there would be snow, or I should not have allowed them to go, although Mr. Morton was most anxious to be off home."
And with these words the saw-miller passed into his office, looking disturbed and not altogether happy.