Nearly each evening this had been his habit. The woods, he said, were
God's first temples, and when alone he best raised his heart from nature
to nature's God.
His thoughts were happy that evening: his first-born boy would be
restored to him, and, like the father in the Gospels, he longed to
embrace the prodigal, and to tell him that all was forgiven. But he
schooled himself to patience, and many a fervent thanksgiving did he
offer as he wandered amidst the grassy glades.
But he was more weary than usual with the toil and anxiety of the day,
and shortly seated himself upon a mossy bank beneath an aged oak. The
trees grew thickly behind and before him, on each side of the glade,
which terminated at no great distance in the heart of the pathless
forest, so that no occasional wayfarer would be likely to pass that way.
There he reposed, until a gentle slumber stole over him and buried all
his senses in oblivion.
The day was nearly spent, the light clouds which still reflected the
sun's ruddy glow were fast fading into a grey neutral tint, and darkness
was approaching. Once a timid deer passed along the glade, and started
as it beheld the sleeping form, then went on, but started yet more
violently as it passed a thicket on the opposite side. The night breeze
had arisen and was blowing freshly; but still the old man slept on, as
though he slept that sleep from which none shall awaken until the
archangel's trump.
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