By this time pony had struck into a quicker pace; the road was more familiar, or he scented the corn crib, and his master let him have the rein.
The next day I left the mountains, but not without a thought of Marston Howe, and an earnest wish that he might succeed.
Poor, and dependent on his own labor, there was something in his case that reminded me strangely of my own; and more than once I felt my heart throb with a quicker beat as I thought of what might be in store for him, had he the courage ever to undertake what I saw from his look he so earnestly craved.
Still, with constant effort, untiring self-denial, and inflexible purpose, the height might be won. The germs of the future harvest must be planted before it can be gathered in. Slow and difficult might be the ascent, and many a time the feet might falter in the way, and the heart well-nigh break, while weakness, prejudice, and passion hinder the progress of the eager soul.
One look to God, however, and obstacles vanish, doubts dissolve. His strength is never denied those that ask him. Marston Howe’s mother was a Christian. His cradle was consecrated by her prayers, and the little son she left behind her was still the object of divine love and care. Such thoughts comforted me. He must go up through the narrow defile of labor, the rocky strait of necessity; but he will overcome: the mother’s prayers will not be lost.
Years have passed since that summer day: we have both been climbers; both began at the same level, the only difference being that I had the start by some half a score of years; difference enough when starting in the race, but hardly perceptible when standing, as we both now do, nearer the top than the bottom of the ladder.
Last summer I again met with Marston Howe; and for the sake of the climbers who have suffered and striven, and of others who are still suffering and striving, I am induced to tell his story as nearly as he told me as I can well remember it.
II.
Of my early life I cannot remember much before we went to the mountains, and still I have always had a vague remembrance of a pleasant home surrounded with tall trees, a fountain bubbling up and catching the sun’s rays in a thousand bewildering forms, sweet flowers, and singing birds; while in my own little room there was a curious round glass with rock and moss at the bottom, where the gold fish flashed their beauty through the crystal water. Then there were days indistinct and shadowy, when the glory and beauty had gone, where I hardly knew, and we had another home—my mother, Jennie, and I.