The unusual warning had alarmed her; it seemed to portend some especial crisis in their eventful history. She had been on the watch a full hour, though it was not yet noon; her dark dress pressing the bed of faded heather she leaned upon; her small head, with its hood of black silk, bending out under shadow of an overhanging bush of furze; her clear hazel eyes fixed upon the way—very anxious, very grave, entirely absorbed in anticipation of this interview, yet with only a clear atmosphere of truth, and honor, and purity round about her, and spite of plain dress, and grave face, nothing perceptible of the unnatural austerity and gloom with which men upbraid these, our strong and brave predecessors in the faith.
At last she saw him quickly ascending the hill, and ran to meet him. There was a greeting of subdued and yet overflowing tenderness—it did not express itself in any exaggeration of word or action, as intense feeling seldom does; but drawing his daughter’s arm within his own, the stranger turned into a lonely ravine of those hills where human footstep seldom passed.
He was a tall, athletic man, spare and strong, such an one as you would choose from a crowd to endure and do to the uttermost, for whatever was dear to him. Happily the thing dear above all others to the stout soul of Caleb Field, was the Evangel of Jesus Christ in the simplicity of its unassisted might. “Thy kingdom come,” was the continual prayer of his life—spoken in words, morning and night, as the strong current of his days flowed on; but graven in deeds hour by hour upon his history, and upon every span of earth he trod on. “For the Lord’s sake,” Caleb Field, praying, preaching, scheming, struggling, like a good soldier taking no rest, had labored all his days.
The father and the daughter were alone in the narrow pass of the hills.
“Edith,” said the minister, gravely, “I have somewhat to say to you.”
He paused. He had been in great haste to make the communication, whatever it was, and yet he hesitated now.
“Yes, father.”
“We are alone in the world, Edith,” said her father, dwelling on the words with a sad cadence in his voice. “We two, alone—and earthly comfort I have sought none else, thou knowest, since thy mother left thee in my arms; yet, Edith, there is One demanding closer service from me than thou canst, and better love from thee than I can. For His sake, and for his royal and holy cause I must go forth again—Edith, at peril of my life—at peril of leaving thee, a helpless orphan maiden in this inclement world, alone. What sayest thou?”
She clasped his arm with a tremulous, clinging motion—she looked up wistfully into his face.
“Father, what is this? tell me.”