The man did not answer.
He had removed his hat and stood gazing intently at the white shaft and at the vine-covered mound at its base. For a full minute he stood there, motionless as the monument itself. Then he turned to the boy.
“Let the thought of her be as dear and sweet to you always as your own life,” he said. “Come!”
With Dannie’s hand still in his, he hastened on. The other members of the party were far ahead. The morning glow was spreading in the east, and in the west the paling moon was dropping down behind the far-off hills. The autumn mist came up and compassed them about, and now and then some sound betokening daybreak came muffled to their ears. On the souls of both the solemn hush of morning rested, and neither of them broke it by a single word.
When the gate that led to the Pickett farmhouse was reached, they both stopped. Again the man bared his head as he gazed through the morning mist at the dim outline of the old homestead. Then he bent down and took Dannie’s face between his hands, and touched the tangled hair on the boy’s forehead with his lips.
“Good-by!” he said. “[Good-by, my boy]; and God bless you and keep you!”
The next moment he was gone, a stalwart, splendid figure, striding like an athlete through the luminous haze.
Is it strange that up from Dannie’s heart came again the old desire, and out from his lips the spoken longing:—