It was not to be had. Perhaps I did not try very hard. Sunday
morning found me spending my last quarter for breakfast in an inn
at Lime Lake. When I had eaten, I went out in the fields and sat
with my back against a tree, and listened to the church-bells that
were ringing also, I knew, in my home four thousand miles away. I
saw the venerable Domkirke, my father's gray head in his pew, and
Her, young and innocent, in the women's seats across the aisle.
I heard the old pastor's voice in the solemn calm, and my tears
fell upon her picture that had called up the vision. It was as if
a voice spoke to me and said to get up and be a man; that if I wanted
to win Elizabeth, to work for her was the way, and not idling my
days away on the road. And I got right up, and, setting my face
toward Buffalo, went by the shortest cut back to my work.
[Illustration: Our Old Pastor.]
I walked day and night, pursued in the dark by a hundred skulking
curs that lurked behind trees until I came abreast of them and
then sallied out to challenge my progress. I stoned them and went
on.
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