In the
narrow valley up which the train was thundering, were small herds of
grazing cattle, a lonely farmhouse here and there. From one a light was
twinkling. And the city with its heat and noise, its nervous throb, its
bedlam nights, all dropped like a fever from his soul.
Now, close by the railroad track, through a shallow rocky gorge a small
river roared and foamed. Its cool breath came up to his nostrils and
gratefully he breathed it in. For this was the Gale River, named after one
of his forefathers, and in his mind's eye he followed the stream back up
its course to the little station where he and Deborah were to get off.
There the narrowing river bed turned and wound up through a cleft in the
hills to the homestead several miles away. On the dark forest road beside
it he pictured George, his grandson, at this moment driving down to meet
them in a mountain wagon with one of the two hired men, a lantern swinging
under the wheels. What an adventure for young George.
Presently he heard Deborah stirring in the berth next to his own.
At the station George was there, and from a thermos bottle which Edith had
filled the night before he poured coffee piping hot, which steamed in the
keen, frosty air.
"Oh, how good!" cried Deborah. "How thoughtful of your mother, George. How
is she, dear?"
"Oh, she's all right, Aunt Deborah." His blunt freckled features flushed
from his drive, George stood beaming on them both.
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