“How old are you, Louis?”
“Fourteen.”
“Oh, I knew that. I asked your auntie. But isn’t it lovely, fourteen and eighteen; fourteen and eighteen!—and to think that I have died for you, and have come back to you!
“Tomorrow we’ll go to church. The new minister’s a rather nice chap. I like to hear him pray, he’s so genteel about it; and he’s sound in doctrine, so your auntie says, and you know she’s a blue Presbyterian.” And Minnie immediately took Louis under her wing.
Next day she took him to church, leading him by a string, as it were, set him down beside her in the family pew, and their whisperings mingled with other whisperings in the repressive silence. Then the minister appeared in the pulpit, a fairly young man with mien and countenance betoking earnestness, piety and poverty. Louis thought he prayed well, as with quiet fervor he set forth his belief that God was within his temple, and assuredly within the hearts of his flock. When it came to the sermon, Louis sat up straight and took eager notice, for the good man had just read from the big Bible this text: “And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud, to lead them on the way, and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light to go by day and night.” Louis needed no sermon; in a flash he knew that all his life he had been led in by a pillar of gleaming cloud, and a pillar of fire; and his far-reaching instant vision forecast it would be thus until the end. Yet he took much heart in listening to the youngish man in the pulpit grasp the totality of this simple story, transmute it into a great symbol, and in impassioned voice lift it to the heights of idealism and of moral grandeur, refashioning it into a spiritual pillar of cloud and a pillar of fire ever present in the hearts, the minds, the souls of all humans, as he urgently, yea, piteously, besought the blind to see.
As they walked home Minnie remarked that it was an extra-fine sermon, but as Louis did not reply she scented danger and tactfully chatted about little things, until her joyous sweetness detached him from his pillar of ravishing cloud and the pillar of wondrous fire. Soon she had him laughing as gaily as herself and plucking wayside flowers for her. For Minnie was intuitive to a degree. She knew that Louis had been deeply stirred, that he had been dreaming somberly as they left the church: and this she would not countenance. She believed that if one must dream it should be of happiness, and the dreamer wide awake to the joy of living. They sat for a while by the falls, but Louis was not content. There seemed to be something purposeless in this clumsy tumbling about of dark waters, losing their balance, falling helplessly over ledges and worn boulders, lost in their way among them, and reeling absurdly off at the bottom. It all seemed to lack order and singleness of purpose. Near the falls was a small wooden mill afflicted with the rickets, and this alone seemed in tune with the falls.
So they trudged home and Aunt Jenny said the blessing. Grandpa had just returned from a long walk, his favorite pastime—fifteen or twenty miles—nothing for him. It became his daily habit. He always went barehead, always got lost and always found his way back.
Next day Minnie told Louis, in confidence, she knew of a charming spot not very far away, where there were ledges of rock and tall trees, and a darling rivulet with green along its banks. She took him there, and would not even let him help her over the lichen and moss covered rocks. With Louis in tow she found a shady spot, with ferns and undergrowth forming a nook, and the wide-branching trees a canopy. She had taken books with her, and on a large, ancient stone which she called her pulpit, she perched with her slave. Below them ran the rivulet, and above the opposite crest there showed a bit of the roof of the dwelling. Minnie clapped her hands with joy. “Louis, don’t you think I’m good to bring you here? It is the solitary oasis in this desert of hayland. There is hay, hay, hay, for miles.”
Presently she opened a book and read from Tennyson, making her selections carefully varied, feeling her way through Louis’s responses to see where she could reach his heart, how she could bare it, and then keep her secret. She read from Byron, recited many other poems with a skill unknown to elocutionists, and a stealthy, comfortable look came into her eyes now turned green, her face wreathed in a Mona Lisa smile, as she said: “Louis, this is a great, beautiful, good world if but we knew it, and to this very spot I have often come in thankful mood, and from this very pulpit prayed to these trees to make me pure in heart.” And then she told Louis about the many books she had read, largely French novels—for practice, she said; and then Louis told her he had read all of Captain Mayne Reid’s books, all the Leather Stocking Tales, some by Maryatt, and some wonderful and beautiful stories in the Bible; and he recited for her, verbatim, the story of Elijah, the whirlwind, and the still small voice.
The smile on Minnie’s pale face became luxurious, her gleaming eyes about to close, as she said half-warningly: “Louis, Louis, you are in danger!” and refused to explain. Then suddenly coming to herself she cried: “We must
