A wind had sprung up. One of the sudden summer squalls was coming. The trees were sighing mournfully, and as they sighed the boy's better spirit rose gently within him.
"Dad!" he murmured, "Dad! where are you?—Suppose you never came back—God forgive me—what should I do without my father?" and throwing himself on the grass, he buried his face in his arms.
He got up when the Highlander willed him to, and went sadly toward the house, his head hanging.
"Highlander," I ventured to say, "you've done a good deed to-night."
Good and bad spirits never speak to human beings. They just hover over them, but they can speak to animals.
"Pony," said the good old man, "the boy is God's child. He will soon be God's man. You must respect him for you, too, are God's little animal—not as high as the boy, but still having rights."
I listened quietly, and feeling very much happier watched the old man's cloud with its misty fur points melt into the gloom of the log cabin.
Then I went toward the barn cellar. I, too, had a little missionary work to do that night.
It was just as I expected. The pigs were snoring like thunderstorms and the two dogs were lying on the threshold as sound as tops.
They never stirred till my shoes struck the sill, then they were close to me, one on each side like wolves closing on a deer.