As they returned to the office there was nothing extraordinary in the President's vigorous step--that was known the world around. There was something most unusual, however, in the radiant soul--the splendid ancient youth of the quaint figure by his side. At the door where the policeman had watched the waiting pilgrim the President shook the old man's hand. "Come again, Mr. Dale, and tell 'Ves' Long I'll go hunting with him this fall and bring along a man he'll like--a man who catches wolves with his hands." * * * * * John Dale knew every fence corner in that region, but the night was so dark he stopped at times to "feel where he was." The man with him could not aid him; he was a stranger--a strange stranger who spoke but once--"How far is it?" Long habit had made him silent; he was in the upper fifties, but long absence from the sun had pinched his face into the white mask of great age. At the village store the stranger entered, returning with a package. When the road turned there was a light high ahead and a moment later the two men entered the cabin. The stranger paused. "Mother, you sent me for a clothes-line--I've been delayed--but here it is." Her hand trembled as she raised the lamp from the table. "My boy--my dream--the President!" * * * * * When she lifted her face it was glorified. End of Project Gutenberg's The Angel of Lonesome Hill, by Frederick Landis