"You are all right, auntie," he said, kissing her. "It is simply a question of love, Tom. And that should come before everything. Go and find her." "Yes, if I have to track her with the hounds," he replied, hastening away; and she stood looking after him, with a new light in her eye. And while she was standing there, Jim came out of the house. "Ma'm," he said, and she turned with a start; and toward her he came with a gentle boldness, and she looked at him in surprise. "Ma'm, I have come to tell you good-bye." Her breath came quick, and then with a smile she quieted herself as one resigned to evil news. "Why, you aren't going, are you?" Standing a few paces from her he hung low his head. "Yes, I thought I'd better cut my stay a little short. My people need me." As someone far away she saw him, though he was nearer now. "But don't we--don't your uncle need you?" He was not too big, not awkward now--his hands were not in his way, and thinking not upon how to stand, stood gracefully; and the breeze that came down the creek brought cool perfume from the nestling coves where all the day and the night the wild rose nodded. "No, ma'm; my work lies away over among the mountains." She turned to walk away from him, but looking up, was closer. "I beg yo' pardon, ma'm, but haven't you got a picture of yo'se'f you would give me?" "A picture of me? What do you want with it, Mr. Reverend?" "My cabin is under the hill, and in the winter time it is dark there and I would like to have--have a never-failing lamp to lighten it." "Oh," and her hands were pressed to her bosom, "You can't mean that." "Ma'm, I don't joke about sacred things." "Mr. Reverend--" "If you would call me Jim one time--just once, I should have something to dream about." She gestured and he caught her hand. "Please don't," she pleaded, slowly taking her hand away. "Please don't talk that way. You know I told you that you had revived my faith in man, after it had gasped and died. But you spoke a resurrecting word and--" "But would my dreaming again and again that I had heard you call me Jim--would that kill it again? Honey,--I--I beg your pardon. I am used to talking to children, and I call them by pet names. I beg your pardon." She looked far away, at the blue water rippling down the hills. "If in your sight I could be as a little child." "Ma'm, I lead a child, but you could lead me." "To walk with you, Mr. Reverend, would be along the upward path, toward the sunrise." "Ma'm, you make me think of Christian when he stood with clasped hands, looking up at the golden city where they sang, 'holy, holy.'" "How could I make you think of that, Mr. Reverend?" "Walking with me toward the sunrise. Ah, but the wild briar would tear your dress." "But haven't the briars torn your flesh?" He pointed upward. "Ah, and a wound in His service is balm to the soul." "Mr. Reverend, a true woman would take most of the wounds if--" "If she were--loved?"