Then I saw at his side on the ground two small tin cans, and in his
hands a pair of paint brushes. As he stepped aside I saw the words he
had been painting on the boulder:
GOD IS LOVE
A meek figure, indeed, he looked, and when he saw me advancing he said,
with a deference that was almost timidity:
"Good morning, sir."
"Good morning, brother," I returned heartily.
His face brightened perceptibly.
"Don't stop on my account," I said; "finish off your work."
He knelt again on his bit of carpet and proceeded busily with his
brushes. I stood and watched him. The lettering was somewhat crude, but
he had the swift deftness of long practice.
"How long," I inquired, "have you been at this sort of work?"
"Ten years," he replied, looking up at me with a pale smile. "Off and on
for ten years. Winters I work at my trade--I am a journeyman
painter--but when spring comes, and again in the fall, I follow the
road."
He paused a moment and then said, dropping his voice, in words of the
utmost seriousness:
"I live by the Word."
"By the Word?" I asked.
"Yes, by the Word," and putting down his brushes he took from an inner
pocket a small package of papers, one of which he handed to me.
Pages:
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