"Billy-boy, we're crying. I wonder—what for?"
"Because," Billy's mouth was full of that silken gown; "because you and me is so plum chuck-full of happiness we're nigh to busting."
"Oh! Billy, is that really it, really?"
Billy looked up from his shrine.
"Ain't we?" he said solemnly.
"Billy—I—believe—we—are."
Late that night, standing alone by his study window, Drew's tired eyes travelled over his parish. His people had gone. They were his people at last. God-given, as he had been God-sent. He would work with them and for them. He would live day by day, and not look to the eventide. He would—then he looked down the moonlighted road to the stretch on beyond the house, where the snow lay unbroken on the way up to Gaston's shack. A tall, strong figure was striding into the emptiness. A man's form, swinging and full of purpose. It was—John Dale himself going up to meet his fate.
There was no light of welcome in the shack among the pines. All was dark and lifeless. Drew started back. Humanity seemed to urge him to follow that lonely figure and be within call should his help be needed. Second thought killed the desire.
The man plunging ahead in the night was a strong man. A man who through sorrow, sin and shame, had hewed his way to his own place. No one could help him in this hour that awaited him. He must go up to the Mount bearing his own cross—and accept the outcome according as his preparation for the ordeal had fitted him.
It was ten o'clock of the following day, when Drew was roused from his reading beside the study fire by a sharp knock on the door.