The Frontiersman Part 43

"I don't mean that, laddie, fer an army of doctors couldn't help me now. I guess it's only the good Lord who will give me any relief."

"Pete, Pete, don't say that!" cried Constance. "We can't spare you yet. What will we do without you?"

"It's the good Lord's will, la.s.sie, an' though I'd like to stay wid yez a while longer, still when He calls I must be a-goin'. An' yit I wonner," he continued after a pause, "what He wants the likes of me up yon fer anyway."

"He wants you, perhaps," replied Keith softly, "for the same reason that we want you here, because He loves you."

"Loves me! Loves me! What is thar in me to love? an' what have I ever done that He should love me?"

"'I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat,'" quoted Constance, "'I was thirsty and ye gave me drink, I was a stranger and ye took me in.'

That is what you did to us at Siwash Creek, and I am sure Christ won't forget that."

"Oh, that's nothin', la.s.sie. I jist done it 'cause I couldn't see yez suffer, that's all."

"I think it very much. And didn't Christ say that a cup of cold water given in His name will not lose its reward?"

"'In His name!' Ah, la.s.sie, that's jist whar the stick comes. I didn't think much about 'Im when I was a-doin' them things. Thar wasn't the burnin' love in my heart for 'Im that I should have had, an'

it's never been very strong in my heart at any time."

"I think the Master will judge differently," said Keith. "Did He not say, 'That greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends?' Isn't that what you did for me last night?"

"Did He say them words, laddie; are ye sure?" and the old man looked his eagerness.

"Yes, that's just what He said. I will read them to you," and Keith opened his Bible and read the beautiful scene, recorded by St. John, of the true vine and the branches.

For a while Pete remained very still, with his eyes closed, to all appearance asleep.

"Laddie," he suddenly remarked, "them words are very comfortin', but thar 're others which make me feel bad in that same good Book."

"What! in here?"

"Yes, whar the Master tells us about the journey food. I don't recollect the exact words, but He says if we don't eat His flesh and drink His blood we have no life in us. Now, them are purty straight words, an' I've often thought about 'em. I took the Communion once, jist after my Confirmation, an' a most solemn an' elevatin' sarvice it was. But I ain't took it since. I ain't been worthy."

"But you shall have it now if you wish," said Keith eagerly.

"But de'ye think I'm worthy, laddie?"

"That's not the question, Pete. I doubt if any of us are really worthy of the blessings we receive, and if we waited until we were worthy to follow His command about the Communion we would never take it at all.

If we waited until we were well before obeying the doctor's orders, what good would they do? Now, Christ is the Doctor of souls, the Great Physician, and He has given us this blessed food to strengthen, comfort, and to give us more and fuller life. What He wants to see in us is an earnest desire, a true, living faith."

"I do want it, laddie," said Pete eagerly. "It is His command, an' He said, 'Do this in remembrance of Me,' didn't He? I ain't fergot them words, an' when I meet 'Im up yon, mebbe He'll ax me about it, an' what kin I say if I haven't obeyed 'Im. So if ye don't mind, an' it ain't too much trouble, mebbe ye'd give it to me now."

It did not take Keith long to bring the Communion vessels from the church, and when the fair linen cloth had been spread upon the little table, the bread and wine made ready in the small silver chalice and paten, and the missionary robed in his white surplice and stole, the short, beautiful service began.

Pete followed earnestly every word, and at times a low "Amen" escaped his lips.

"La.s.sie," he said, turning to Constance when the benediction had been given, "won't ye sing a leetle?"

"Yes," came the reply, "what would you like?"

"Thar's a hymn me mother uster sing very often, an' it's mighty fine.

It begins this way, 'Jeeroosalem, the golden.' I've sung it meself out on the hills."

"I know it," replied Constance, and in a low, sweet voice she sang the familiar words with eyes filled with tears.

"Go on, la.s.sie, don't stop," said Pete, when the first verse was ended.

Verse after verse was accordingly sung, and when at last the amen fell from her lips, she glanced at the old man and found that he had fallen asleep.

"It is well," said Keith gently. "We will leave him now for a time."

When Pete again awoke the day was far spent, and the sun was swinging low in the west. He opened his eyes, and looked around in a dazed manner, when, meeting Constance's anxious eyes fixed upon him, a smile flitted across his face.

"I had a wonnerful dream, la.s.sie. I saw me father an' mother very plain. They was a-holdin' out their hands to me, jist like they uster do when I was a leetle lad. They looked so happy, an' they was a-smilin' at me. All around them thar was flowers, an' beautiful trees, in which the birds were a-singin'. A leetle brook flowed right by, an' I could hear it ripplin' an' makin' music, like the leetle stream which ran through the medder near my old home. I heard children a-playin' an' laughin' by the brook, an' among the flowers. Oh, it was wonnerful! When I tried to go somethin' held me back. I struggled so hard that at last I woke, an' it all went away."

Again he fell into a sleep, not a peaceful one as before, but troubled.

He tossed much, and often unintelligible words escaped his lips. When he next awoke Constance and Keith were sitting near, watching him attentively. He did not notice them, however, for he was off on the trail, following up the golden lure.

"Alec, man," he said, "are ye thar? It's gittin' dark, an' the trail's rough. Lower this pack from me back, man; it's too heavy, I can't stan' it. Whar's me blanket, Alec? It's cold to-night. Throw some sticks on the fire. Thar, that's better ... We ain't got much further to go, Alec; jist across yon range, down the valley, an' up t'other side ... Ah, thar's the gold! I knowed it was thar! I've been a-follerin' it all me life ... Look, man, see how it s.h.i.+nes! Gold!

Gold! Thank G.o.d, I've struck it at last!"

He looked around the room, and his eyes fell upon the anxious watchers.

"Whar am I, lad?" he asked. "I thought I was on the trail an' had made a rich strike."

"You are here, safe in this cabin," replied Keith, "so don't worry."

"What's the time, laddie?"

"Almost midnight."

"Ah, I didn't think it was so late. But I know it can't be long now, fer I'm slippin' away fast."

Then he looked at Constance and noticed the tears in her eyes.

"Don't cry, la.s.sie. I'm only an old man, an' ain't wuth the fuss."

He was soon away again, this time a child, back in his old home.

"Mother, are ye thar? Bring the light, mother, an' hold me hand while I say me prayers."

He fumbled over the blanket, as if expecting the loving pressure as of old. At once Constance bent over him and took his cold, rough hand in her own. He grasped it firmly, while a look of contentment stole into his face.

"Now, kiss me, mother. I'm very tired, an' want to go to sleep."

Gently as a mother Constance stooped low, and as her lips touched his bronzed forehead he started suddenly up.

"The trail! The s.h.i.+nin' trail!" he cried. "How bright it is! an' ...

oh, I see..."