"Oh, the beast's all right," an old man slowly replied, "but it was put to a wrong use, that's where the trouble came."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Don't you know? Didn't you hear about what happened on the river this afternoon? Tim went there on purpose to meet the parson, and strike up a race. He's been boasting for some time that he would do it. The Lord has given that man much rope, and has suffered him long. But this was too much, and He's tripped him up at last."
"Peter Brown," and the woman held up her hands in astonishment, "how can you say such a thing about your old neighbour, and in his house, too, with him lying there in that condition?"
"I'm only saying what the rest know and think," was the calm reply. "I've told Tim time and time again right to his face that the Lord would settle with him some day. 'Tim,' said I, and it was not later than last fall that I said it, 'Tim, the Lord has been good to you. He's blessed you in every way. You've health, strength, and a good home. And what have you done for Him? What have you given in return? Nothing. You curse, revile and scorn Him on the slightest pretext. It's not only mean, Tim, but you'll get punished some day, and don't you forget it.' But he only swore at me, and told me to shut up and mind my own business and he would mind his. But my words have come true, and I guess Tim sees it at last."
Dan was sitting bolt upright now, with his hands clenched and eyes staring hard at the speaker. The words had gone straight to his little heart, with terrible, stinging intensity. This man was saying what Farrington and the parson had said. It must be true. But the idea of the punishment was something new. He had never thought of that before.
And even as he looked, a silence spread throughout the room, for Parson John was standing in the doorway. Upon his face an expression dwelt which awed more than many words, and all at once realized that the venerable man had just stepped from the solemn chamber of Death.
Chapter X
In Camp
Nestling snugly among large stately trees of pine and spruce, the little log-cabin presented a picturesque appearance. Its one room, lighted by a small window, served as kitchen, living and sleeping apartments combined. It was warm, for the rough logs were well chinked with moss, while the snow lay thick upon the roof and banked up around the sides. This cabin had been recently built, and stood there by the little brook as an outward and visible sign of an inward change in the heart and mind of one of Glendow's sturdy sons.