So in life. With all the changes that time inevitably brings, with all our civilization, our inventions and improvements, some things must remain unchanged. Some things--the great landmarks in life and in religion, the hills, the valleys, the mists, must ever remain the same. Some things, thank God, are beyond the damning power of our improvements. In minor things the Matthews home itself is altered. But Dan's father and mother are still--in spite of the years that have come--Young Matt and Sammy. It was that best of all seasons in the Ozarks--October--the month of gold, when they were sitting on the front porch in the evening with the old Doctor, who had arrived during the afternoon. "Now, Doctor," said the mother, "tell us all about it." There was no uneasiness in her calm voice, no shadow of worry in her quiet eyes. And the boy's father by her side was like her in serene confidence. They knew from Dan's letters something of the trials through which he had passed; they had assured him often of their sympathy. It never occurred to them to doubt him in any way or to question the final outcome. "Yes, Doctor," came the deep voice of the father. "We have had Dan's letters of course, but the lad's not one to put all of his fight on paper. Let's have it as you saw it." So the Doctor told them--told of the causes that had combined to put Dan on the rack, that had driven him in spite of himself to change his views of the church and its ministry; told of the forces that had been arrayed against him, how the lad had met these forces, and how he had battled with himself--all that the Doctor had seen in the months of watching; all that he knew of Dan, even to the time when Dan declared his doubt of everything, and to the chastising of Judge Strong. He omitted nothing except the declaration he had heard Dan make to the Judge. Several times the narrator was interrupted by the deep-voiced, hearty laugh of the father, or with exclamations of satisfaction. Sometimes the Doctor was interrupted by a quick, eager question from the mother, that helped to make the story clear. Many times they uttered half-whispered exclamations of wonder, distress or indignation. "When he left Corinth," said the Doctor in conclusion, "he told me that he had no clearly-defined plans, though he hinted at something that he had in mind." "But, Doctor, haven't you forgotten a very important part of your story?" the mother asked. "What have I forgotten?" he questioned. "Why, the girl of course. What is a story without a girl?" she laughed merrily. To which the Doctor answered, "I reckon Dan will tell you about that himself." At this they all joined in a hearty laugh. The next day Dan arrived and after a brief time, given up to the joy of family reunion, he took up the story where the Doctor had left off.