The supper had been removed from the fire, and awaited them spread temptingly upon the grass. The three of them sat facing the flames so they might get the full light upon what the pedler termed Pan's table. They dropped their more serious subject, chattering playfully like a group of care-free children at play.... An hour later this new-found friend arose to go. He extended his hands to them, saying,
"Here's luck, love, and a prayer.... Good night."
They watched him walk leisurely down the road until he was lost from sight in the night. In the distance they could see the twinkling friendly light which called him to his home, and to his task. And they knew that he went gladly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"IF I WERE MONSIEUR L'ABBÉ PICOT"
The next morning at half an hour after sunrise they passed the country church where the gentle parson preached and prayed, and took the rough and picturesque road down the hill for the village which lay beside the river a mile or more below. In those days it was known as the "Old Road," and was as rocky and impassable as it was interesting and adventurous. One never quite knew, as one rounded its many sharp turns, drove close to hazardous declivities and beneath great over-hanging boulders, whether one was to be wrecked by an approaching team, to fall to painful yawning depths, or crushed to an unrecognizable pulp. That no one was hurt was largely due to the fact that the danger was so apparent. At the bottom of the highway, dug and blasted from the hill side, there abided a small village with the erudite and classical name of Milton.
Jean François was charmed with the old hill road. He lingered at each bend seeking glimpses of the valley away below—almost beneath. Upon every side grew great oaks, spreading beech, and tall, strong hickory. These trees appeared to have forced themselves from the very boulders which surrounded them, partaking of their solidity and massiveness. At intervals were patches of shrubby, ill-smelling "heavenly bushes." At one place, by peering through a ravine, he discovered a large old-fashioned farmhouse perched on the highest point above, guarding, like a sentinel, the small domain of the dead, the near-by community cemetery.
A final turn in the road brought them once more into sight of their beloved river, the magnificent Ohio, which they were to leave no more even to the journey's end. A few moments later they were passing through Milton. Once out on the smooth level turnpike which took them through Hunter's bottom on the Carrolton way, Jean François turned to Nance, who rode upon the seat, and began talking of their unusual visitor of the night before.