“That is a scientific fact.” Paul was greatly moved by his old friend's tone and attitude. “It is a spiritual fact according to the laws of telepathy or thought-transference. Most scientists now believe in it.”
“You say they do?” Silas was wiping his flowing eyes and adjusting his spectacles. “Well, many and many a time I've had proof of it. I could tell wonders that I've experienced, but I won't now—that is, I won't tell you of but one thing, an' that concerned you. Last Christmas Eve me'n Cynthy had cooked a big turkey for the next day, an' made a lot o' other preparations. We had toys an' little tricks to give this child and that one. We had laid in things for pore neighbors to eat and wear, an' both of us was in about as jolly a mood as ever we was in all our lives. We set up rather late that night, an' sung an' read from the Bible, an' prayed as usual, an' then we went to bed. But I couldn't sleep. I got to thinkin' about you an' wonderin' whar you was at an' what sort o' Christmas you was to have. I rolled an' tumbled. Cynthy was asleep—the pore thing was awful tired—an' I got up an' went to the fireplace, where I had buried some coals in the ashes to kindle from in the momin' and bent over, still thinkin' o' you. Then all at once—I don't know how to describe it any other way than to say it was like a big, black, soggy weight that come down on me. It bore in from all sides, like a cloud that you can feel, an' I could hardly breathe. Then something—it wasn't a voice, it wasn't words spoke out of any human mouth, it was just knowledge—knowledge plainer and deeper than words could have expressed—knowledge from God, from space—from some'r's outside myself—that told me you was in a sad, sad plight. I couldn't say what it was, but it was awful. It seemed to me that you was swayin' to an' fro between good an' evil, between light and darkness—between eternal life an' eternal death. I never felt so awful in all my life, not even when my own boy died. I got down on my knees there in the ashes, and I prayed as I reckon never a man prayed before. I pleaded with the Lord and begged 'im to help you—to drag you back from the open pit or abyss, or whatever it was, that you was about to walk into. For awhile the thing seemed to hang an' waver like, and then, all at once, it was lifted, an' I knowed that you was safe. I knowed it—I knowed it.”
Silas ceased speaking, his mild, melting glance rested on the young man's face.
Paul sat in grave silence for a moment, his features drawn as by painful recollection.
“Your intuition was right,” he said. “On that night, Uncle Si, I met and passed through the greatest crisis of my life. I was tempted to take a step that was wrong. I won't speak of it now, but I'll tell you all about it some day. Something stopped me. Invisible hands seemed pushed out from the darkness to hold me back. Your prayers saved me, I am sure of it now.”
CHAPTER VI
BEFORE the end of his first week's work Paul had reason to believe that Hoag was highly pleased with his executive ability. Paul had a good saddle-horse at his disposal, and he made daily visits to the various properties of his employer. He hired hands at his own discretion, and had a new plan of placing them on their honor as to the work that was to be done in his absence. Hoag was surprised. He had found it difficult to secure sufficient men, while under Paul's management the places were always filled. There was a clockwork regularity in it all. From his window every morning at sunrise Hoag could see men diligently at work in his fields, and at the tannery and mill. There was a fresh, buoyant activity in it all. The young man had replaced old, worn-out tools and implements with new ones, in which the workers took pride.
Paul's room looked as much like an office as a bedchamber. On his table Hoag discovered a most orderly set of accounts; on the walls hung charts, time-cards, and maps of the woodlands, with careful estimates of the cost of felling trees and the best disposition of the bark and timber. There was little doubt that Paul was infusing the spirit of the West into the slower habits of the South, and Hoag chuckled inwardly, finding it difficult to keep from openly expressing his enthusiasm. Paul convinced him, in a moment's talk, that the steam-engine and machinery at the cotton-gin were worn out, and that the whole should be renewed. Hoag saw, too, that the young man was right when he called attention to the careless manner in which the cotton lands had been fertilized. The negroes had used no judgment in placing the guano, having often put it on soil that did not need it—soil which could better be enriched by the till now unused loam of the marshes and the decayed matter of the forests.