* * * * *
I remember as distinctly as though it happened yesterday the particular
evening three years ago when I saw the Scotch Preacher come hurrying up
the road toward my house. It was June. I had come out after supper to
sit on my porch and look out upon the quiet fields. I remember the
grateful cool of the evening air, and the scents rising all about me
from garden and roadway and orchard. I was tired after the work of the
day and sat with a sort of complete comfort and contentment which comes
only to those who work long in the quiet of outdoor places. I remember
the thought came to me, as it has come in various forms so many times,
that in such a big and beautiful world there should be no room for the
fever of unhappiness or discontent.
And then I saw McAlway coming up the road. I knew instantly that
something was wrong. His step, usually so deliberate, was rapid; there
was agitation in every line of his countenance. I walked down through
the garden to the gate and met him there. Being somewhat out of breath
he did not speak at once. So I said:
"It is not, after all, as bad as you anticipate."
"David," he said, and I think I never heard him speak more seriously,
"it is bad enough.
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