He looked out of the window at the coming darkness, and then back upon the young listening faces in the firelight.
And he told them his story. It was a very simple one.
PART I.
We spend our years as a tale that is told
Look, it is evening, quite evening at last. See how the light has faded, and the shadows have fallen over the hills. The day is over, the twilight is gathering.
Just so it is with me. My day has long been over; the hours of work are spent, the twilight seems long, very long, but the night is at hand.
I am glad that it should be so. To the old weary eyes this dim light is welcome; to the tired frame, 'the night in which no man can work,' looks full of rest as it draws near.
You ask me how it was with me in the morning.
It is so long ago I can scarcely remember now.
In the morning, when I was young?