The old shepherd answered softly, “One did.” Then rising to his feet and pointing to Roark valley, he said, “Before many years a railroad will find its way yonder. Then many will come, and the beautiful hills that have been my strength and peace will become the haunt of careless idlers and a place of revelry. I am glad that I shall not be here. But I must not keep you longer from your duties.” “I shall see you again, shall I not?” The painter was loath to let him go. “More often than will be good for your picture, I fear. You must work hard, young sir, while the book of God is still open, and God’s message is easily read. When the outside world comes, men will turn the page, and you may lose the place.” After that they met often, and one day the old man led the artist to where a big house looked down upon a ridge encircled valley. Though built of logs without, the house within was finished and furnished in excellent taste. To his surprise, the painter found one room lined with shelves, and upon the shelves the best things that men have written for their fellows. In another room was a piano. The floors were covered with rugs. Draperies and hangings softened the atmosphere; and the walls were hung with pictures; not many, but good and true; pictures that had power over those who looked upon them. The largest painting hung in the library and was veiled. “My daughter, Mrs. Matthews,” said the old shepherd, as he presented the stranger to the mistress of the house. In all his search for beauty, never had the artist looked upon such a form and such a face. It was a marvelous blending of the physical with the intellectual and spiritual. A firm step was heard on the porch. “My husband,” said the lady. And the stranger rose to greet—the woman’s _mate._ The children of this father and mother were like them; or, as the visitor afterwards said in his extravagant way, “like young gods for beauty and strength.” The next summer the painter went again to the Ozarks. Even as he was greeted by the strong master of the hills and his charming wife, there fell upon his ears a dull report as of distant cannon; then another, and another. They led him across the yard, and there to the north on the other side of Roark, men were tearing up the mountain to make way for the railroad. As they looked, another blast sent the rocks flying, while the sound rolled and echoed through the peaceful hills. The artist turned to his friends with questioning eyes; “Mr. Howitt said it would come. Is he—is he well?” Mrs. Matthews answered softly, “Dad left us while the surveyors were at work. He sleeps yonder.” She pointed to Dewey Bald. Then they went into the library, where the large picture was unveiled. When the artist saw it, he exclaimed, “Mad Howard’s lost masterpiece! How—where did you find it?” “It was Father Howitt’s request that I tell you the story,” Sammy replied. And then she told the artist a part of that which I have set down here. THE END.