CHAPTER XIII.
LEAVING THE SAW-MILL.
"This is very awkward! Very!" exclaimed Mr. Morton the next day, when, on joining his host at the great breakfast-table, he heard that his guide of the day before had changed his mind about returning with him to the nearest railway station, twenty miles away. The man wished to remain at the saw-mill, having found an old mate there.
"I can do with him very well," said the saw-miller, "as I am rather short of hands just now. All the same, I don't wish to take the fellow from you."
"Well, of course, I engaged him to guide me here and back, and I can make it worth his while to return with me."
"Oh, I'll compel him to do that, if you like!" said Mr. Ellison. "But you might find him a bit nasty. I know the man, who has been here before; he has an ugly temper."
"Then we are better without him. After all, I believe I can remember the way; we can scarcely call it a road. It is in nearly a straight line, is it not?"
"Yes, for about half the distance. Then you come to a place where the track, or way, branches out in two directions. You must take the turn to the right—you'll remember right's right—and go straight on. There is no difficulty."
"Well, then, I'll dispense with Smith's services."
"I should if I were you. It's nice weather, clear and frosty, the snow as hard as any road. You'll find your horses, animated by the fine exhilarating air, will gallop over it splendidly."
"Will you sell me a mount for the boy?" asked Mr. Morton.
"He has his own pony. Of course he will take that."
"May I?" asked Cyril eagerly. "Oh, Mr. Ellison, may I really take Blackie?"
His eyes shone with delight. He had been thinking that morning how hard it would be for him to leave his dear pony, notwithstanding his great happiness.
"Why, of course, Cyril. The pony is your own. I gave it to you long ago," answered Mr. Ellison.
"And he's such a stunning pony, father. He follows me like a dog, and he's never tired; he goes like the wind. And such a beauty! There isn't one like him in England, I'm sure; at least, I don't think there can be."
"I must see him," said his father. "You've been very kind to my boy," he added gratefully to the saw-miller.
The big man laid his hand on Cyril's head as he sat beside him. "I would give half of all that I possess," he said to Mr. Morton, "to have a boy like him. My wife and infant son died thirteen years ago," he added rather huskily.
Mr. Ellison grasped his hand. "I have lost Cyril's mother too, for a time," he said very softly.
"A time? What do you mean?"
"Please God, we shall meet again in a better world," replied Mr. Morton in low tones full of deep feeling.
"Ah, you are a happy man!" said the saw-miller, so low that no one else could hear. "It's all plain sailing with you. You'll get to heaven, I've no doubt. But with me it's very different. It's a rough life this of mine, trying to wrest a living out of the heart of the forest, far from any help of religion or even civilisation; I try to keep straight, but——"
"I know you do," exclaimed Mr. Morton. "You've been so good to my boy. You know our Lord's words, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.'"
The saw-miller's eyes filled with tears of surprise and joy; he brushed his hand across them hastily lest they should be seen. At heart he was a very humble man, although he had to appear stern and proud to the men, who, generally, obeyed him as if he were a sort of king over them.
"And you are not really alone," continued Mr. Morton, still speaking in the low tones which could not be heard by the others at the table. "Although you have no outside spiritual aids, no place of worship, and no clergyman, you have the promise, 'Lo, I am with you always.'"
"But was that meant for me?" asked the saw-miller. "I always thought that was only meant for the parsons."
"It was meant for everyone who, in all future times, should endeavour ever so humbly to tread in the steps of our great Exemplar, the Lord Jesus Christ."
That was all that passed just then. The "boss" was obliged to turn to his men, and dismiss them to their work with a few pointed directions. But when Mr. Morton was ready to ride away, after having looked round the place where his little son had lived so long, thanked the Davidsons for their kindness to him, and seen the affectionate way in which they and some of the other men parted from him, the saw-miller came up hastily and wrung his hand, saying, "Good-bye. I can understand now how it is Cyril became what he is. I shall think of your words after you have gone."
"Good-bye. God bless you!" said the grateful father.
Cyril threw his arms round the saw-miller's neck and kissed him for the first and last time on his hard, bronzed face. "Good-bye, dear Mr. Ellison," he said, "I shall write you ever such long letters from England. And I'll tell you all about how Blackie likes the old country. I can't thank you enough for giving me Blackie. I can't indeed." For he estimated the gift of Blackie more highly than any other kindness the great saw-miller had shown him.
Then he had to follow his father, who had already ridden on, and the saw-miller stood looking after them until they were out of sight among the trees.
"I'm afraid, boss," remarked Ben Davidson, meeting him as he crossed the yard to his office, "that we shall have snow again, after all, before long. It has begun to grow darker during the last five minutes," and he scanned the sky with a troubled face.
"Well, I hope it won't come until they have arrived at the station. I did not think there would be snow, or I should not have allowed them to go, although Mr. Morton was most anxious to be off home."
And with these words the saw-miller passed into his office, looking disturbed and not altogether happy.