Oh! how the heart aches and strains after that consummation. Our loved ones, who are gone before, whose spirits are still with us by night and by day, in the busy crowd as in the solitude of our chamber, whose voices we long to hear, whose hands we long to press—what agony of patient waiting!
But there was one standing out in the snow looking up at the Marshes travel-stained and worn, not daring to approach the home of his fathers. He had come many miles over a trackless country, over ice-bound rivers, through deep forests, over mountains and valleys covered with snow, enduring hardships which would have seemed intolerable to a less hardy nature, until at last he stood before the home of his childhood; and tears blinded his eyes when he saw that it was not utterly destroyed, that all had not perished, that still the village steeple rose in the moonlight, telling of God’s mercy.
Suddenly the loud bark of the house-dog warned him that, unless he retreated, his presence would be discovered. He had been standing in the high road; he moved quickly behind a clump of trees, only just in time. The front door opened, and a stream of light poured forth as Marcus stepped out on to the garden path and looked around, cautiously peering into the dark shadows cast by the house and the trees. He heard him say, “I can see no one. Had I better let Bob loose?” The dog’s bark had changed into a whine, which Charles Langlade knew full well to mean that his instinct had discovered a friend, not a foe, in the night watcher.
“It might be as well,” said a woman’s voice; and a second later there was a rush and a bound, and Charles Langlade felt two great paws upon his shoulders, and a loud whine of welcome went up into the still night air.
“Who’s there?” asked Marcus, in a clear, loud voice.
“Down, Bob; down, old boy,” said Charles, stepping out of the shadow; and crossing the road, he opened the wicket gate and entered.
“Marcus!”
“Charles!”
And the two brothers clasped hands.
“My poor boy! Will you ever forgive me?” said the elder.