'You know how I met him,' he continued. 'Well, he won my confidence. I told him my history. I came into the clearing almost every night. Met him often. He tried to persuade me to come back to my people, but I could not do it. I was insane; I feared something--I did not know what. Sometimes I doubted even my own identity. Many a summer night I sat talking for hours, with Uncle Eb, at the foot of Lone Pine. O, he was like a father to me! God knows what I should have done without him. Well, I stuck to my life, or rather to my death, O--there in the woods--getting fish out of the brooks and game out of the forest, and milk out of the cows in the pasture. Sometimes I went through the woods to the store at Tifton for flour and pork. One night Uncle Eb told me if I would go out among men to try my hand at some sort of business he would start me with a thousand dollars. Well, I did--it. I had also a hundred dollars of my own. I came through the woods afoot. Bought fashionable clothing at Utica, and came to the big city--you know the rest. Among men my fear has left me, so I wonder at it. I am a debtor to love--the love of Uncle Eb and that of a noble woman I shall soon marry. It has made me whole and brought me back to my own people. 'And everybody knew he was innocent the day after he left,' said David. 'Three cheers for Uncle Eb!' I demanded. And we gave them. 'I declare!' said he. 'In all my born days never see sech fun. It's tree-menjious! I tell ye. Them 'et takes care uv others'll be took care uv--'less they do it o'purpose.' And when the rest of us had gone to bed Uncle Eb sat awhile by the fire with David. Late at night he came upstairs with his candle. He came over to my bed on tiptoe to see if I were awake, holding the candle above my head. I was worn out and did not open my eyes. He sat down snickering. 'Tell ye one thing, Dave Brower,' he whispered to himself as he drew off his boots, 'when some folks calls ye a fool 's a purty good sign ye ain't.' Chapter 45 Since that day I have seen much coming and going. We are now the old folks--Margaret and Nehemiah and Hope and I. Those others, with their rugged strength, their simple ways, their undying youth, are of the past. The young folks--they are a new kind of people. It gives us comfort to think they will never have to sing in choirs or 'pound the rock' for board money; but I know it is the worse luck for them. They are a fine lot of young men and women--comely and well-mannered--but they will not be the pathfinders of the future. What with balls and dinners and clubs and theatres, they find too great a solace in the rear rank. Nearly twenty years after that memorable Christmas, coming from Buffalo to New York one summer morning, my thoughts went astray in the north country. The familiar faces, the old scenes came trooping by and that very day I saw the sun set in Hillsborough as I had often those late years.