the road he looked back and saw that he had passed the cluster of pines
where Moira had laughed at him, and where he had felt so thick about him
the thronging rush of his newly awakened perceptions of the finer meaning
of things, the gay, sweet crowd of gentle little people.

He stopped the farmer and, leaping down from the high seat, he took his
pipes under his arm and fairly ran up the little path. His rheumatic knee
creaked a little, but the color came up hard in his tired old face as the
twilight of the pines and their pungent, welcoming breath fell about him.
He cast him down and buried his face in the rust-red dried needles. He did
not weep, but from time to time a long sigh heaved his shoulders. Then he
turned over and lay on his back, looking at the sunset-yellow sky through
the green, thick-clustered needles, noticing how the light made each one
glisten as though dipped in molten gold. His hand strayed out to his
pipes, lying beside him with mute, gaping mouths. "The Gold o' the
Glamour," he murmured to himself, and as he broke the silence with the old
tune faintly blown, he felt the wood peopled about him as of yore with
twilight forms. Unseen bright eyes gazed at him from behind tree-trunks,
and the branches were populous with invisible, kindly listeners. The very
hush was symbolic of the consciousness of the wood that he was there
again. There was none of the careless commonplace of rustling leaves, and
snapping twigs, and indifferent, fearless bird-song. In the death-like
still he felt life quivering and observant with a thousand innocent,
curious, welcoming eyes.

When he had quavered through the last note he let the pipes fall and gazed
about him with a smile, like a happy old child. The sun sank behind the
mountain as he looked, and he pulled himself heavily up. His way to the
farm lay over bare upland pastures where his feet, accustomed for years to
the yielding prarie levels, stumbled and tripped among the loose stones.