then twilight falls with the touch

of a hand that soothes and stills,

and a swamp-robin sings into light

the lone white star of the hills.

alone in the dusk he sings,

and a burden of sorrow and wrong

is lifted up from the earth

and carried away in song.

—bliss carman.

john mcintyre, still dressed in the fine black suit martin had given him for the wedding, was slowly walking up the old swamp road toward the ravine. the festivities of the day, and the gracious manner of the duke, had so wrought upon sandy mcquarry that he had, in a moment of reckless extravagance, bidden his watchman take a rest that night, instead of returning to the mill. so tim and he were going off on an important expedition. they had promised martin that before he and arabella returned they would walk down past the drowned lands and take a look at the fine new farm he had bought, and which they were all three to work together. and tim's impatience demanded that they go this evening, for he had already laid great plans for sowing the entire three hundred acres with prize pumpkins, to be raised for the show.

john mcintyre moved along lingeringly, watching for the little, limping figure of his boy. he could see far up the green vista of the ravine, where the shades of evening were gathering. he smiled as he thought of the name the queer englishman had given it; a treasure valley, indeed, the place had proved to him, for here, after long groping in darkness, he had found again the treasure of life.

he turned and looked back, his eyes following the course of the little stream. it wound past his old cabin, lost itself in the green wilderness of the drowned lands, and passed on again through the open fields to that rose-colored line on the horizon, where lake simcoe smiled responsive to the glow of the western heavens. he gazed at it earnestly, and was struck with the strange feeling that he had seen it all before, long ago. the slow music of a bell from a cow feeding far down the corduroy road echoed musically up the wooded aisle. far off in a clover meadow a clear "cling-cling" floated up, where young donald mckitterick stood sharpening his scythe. some subtle influence seemed to have transported him into the past. he looked at the darkening purple of the woods, on one side, and at the sunny undulations of the fields on the other, and the feeling of familiarity grew stronger. this strange spirit of peace, this sense of tender associations, what was causing it? then a little breeze, laden with the clean scent of running water, came dancing through the long grass, and all at once john mcintyre understood. in his blindness, he had not noticed it before—it was his old home come back to him! here at his side ran the river that passed his farm, there was the strip of woodland; and yonder, on the horizon, not lake simcoe, but the dazzling stretches of the bay of fundy! and how wondrously like it all was, this evening, to that last peaceful night he remembered so well, just before the shadows of distress had begun to gather.

over there, to the west, the sun was slipping down to the earth, a great fiery ball dropping from an empty sky. it touched the earth, and kindled the fields to a glory of color; the woods took on a deeper purple tone, and the little river ran into its depths, a stream of molten gold. just at john mcintyre's feet it passed through a bronze fretwork of reeds, and above it the swallows wheeled, flashing, up and up into the amber light.

the man stood, with a rising mist in his eyes obscuring the dear familiarity of the scene. yes, he was home again truly; and up there beyond the glowing heavens, safer and happier than they had ever been in the home nest among the orchards; they waited for him, mary and their little ones.

and still he stood, waiting, in the long, scented june grass, with a feeling of further expectancy. this was home truly, but there was something wanting—some subtle touch, half remembered, half forgotten.

and then from the shadowy hush of the woods the answer came. away in the darkening depths there arose a strain of music, serene as though the spirit of the twilight had taken voice:

"o hear all! o hear all! o holy, holy!"

john mcintyre's heart gave a leap of joy that was almost pain. the hermit thrush! his thrush, singing in the ontario woods! the song floated out, filling the purple valley, sweet, tender, celestial, speaking perfect peace and tranquillity, and calling to his soul to bow in thankfulness before his maker. the man took off his hat, and stood with bowed head. perhaps it was a miracle, part of the miracle of love, that had recreated his old home about him. and why not? for was there anything too wonderful to happen to one who knew that his father ruled, and was a being whose very name was love? perhaps the hermit thrush had been sent to him, a special messenger to remind him that he was with him still, and would be to the end—that one who had spoken to him out of the dawn mists of the drowned lands, the one who would walk with him through the lonely years till he joined mary in the home above, the one from whose tender care he could never be separated, either by sorrow or death.

a long, clear call from the hilltop behind, and tim's little figure came scrambling over the fence. the man did not move, for once more the song arose, and poured forth a strain of purest melody:

"o hear all! o hear all! o holy, holy!"

it died lingeringly away. the woods were dark and silent. john mcintyre turned and went up the hill, smiling, his face to the light.

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