Annette came presently and Strong rose on his elbow and looked at her.
"Ann," he called, as she knelt by his bedside. "To-day—to-day! It's n-no' some day any m-more. It's to-day."
He sank back on his pillow when he saw her tears, and whispered, almost doubtfully, "Better t-times!"
He leaned forward and put up his hands as if to relieve the pressure of his pack-straps, and in a moment he had gone out of hearing on a trail that leads to the "better times" he had hoped for, let us try to believe.
So ends the history of Silas Strong, guide, contriver, lover of the woods and streams, of honor and good-fellowship. He was never to bow his head before the dreaded tyrant of this world. We may be glad of that, and remember gratefully and with renewed thought of our own standing that Strong was ahead.
A curious procession made its way out of the woods that morning. Socky and Sue walked ahead. Master and Edith and her father followed. Then came the boat-jumper with Sinth and all that remained of Silas Strong in it; then the buckboard that carried Harris and old Mrs. Dunmore and the servants. Slowly they made their way towards the sown land.
"What ye cryin' fer?" a stranger asked the children as he passed them.
"Our Uncle Silas died," was the all-sufficient reply of Socky.
Soon they could hear the roar of the saws.
"Look!" said Dunmore to his daughter, as they came in sight of the mill chimney. "There's the edge of the great world."