There seemed, indeed, nothing more to
be said. All my own speculative incomings and outgoings--how futile
they seemed compared with this!
Near the foot of the hill there is a little-bridge. It is a pleasant,
quiet spot. My companion stopped and put down his bag.
"What do you think," said he, "I should paint here?"
"Well," I said, "you know better than I do. What would _you_ paint?"
He looked around at me and then smiled as though he had a quiet little
joke with himself.
"When in doubt," he said, "I always paint 'God is Love,' I'm sure of
that. Of course 'Hell yawns' and 'Repent ye' have to be painted--near
towns--but I much rather paint 'God is Love.'"
I left him kneeling there on the bridge, the bit of carpet under his
knees, his two little cans at his side. Half way up the hill I turned to
look back. He lifted his hand with the paint brush in it, and I waved
mine in return. I have never seen him since, though it will be a long,
long time before the sign of him disappears from our roadsides.
At the top of the hill, near the painted boulder, I climbed the fence,
pausing a moment on the top rail to look off across the hazy
countryside, warm with the still sweetness of autumn. In the distance,
above the crown of a little hill, I could see the roof of my own
home--and the barn near it--and the cows feeding quietly in the
pastures.
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