Harry was the second son of Jake Benton, the backwoods holiness preacher
of the Ozarks. At the age of twenty-one he had become the husband of Eva
Gray, who was two years younger than he. This union had been a blessed
happy one. If all of Chicago's homes were like that of Harry Benton, it
might well be nicknamed the Paradise of America. Thrice the angel of
blessings had visited this home, decorating it each time with one of
heaven's jewels in the form of a baby. Nolan Benton, the twelve-year-old
boy, had the name of his Grandfather Gray, and he also had all the
religious indications of his Grandfather Benton. Blanche was two years
younger than Nolan. She fell heir to the blue eyes, the ruddy cheeks,
the flaxen hair of her mother. Little Jake, the baby, was five years
old. He inherited his Grandfather Benton's name and his Grandfather
Gray's red hair.

One Sunday morning when this happy family gathered around the breakfast
table, Harry Benton's appetite was absent. He could not eat. He
steadfastly gazed through the east window of the beautiful dining room
into the park which spread itself over several acres of ground just
across the street from his home.

"Harry, dear, why do you not eat?" remarked his wife. Harry Benton
smiled, but as he did so a tear glistened on his cheek.

"For some reason," he answered, "I awoke an hour before day this morning
and memory insisted on taking me on a journey over the past and
carrying me on a ramble through the scenes of my childhood, and as I sit
here the sight of those trees in the park remind me of old Ozark's grand
forests. I like to think of those old scenes, and by the way, wife, come
to think about it, it is three years this month since we were down home