"I see the tree," said Shenton. "Mother, do you see the tree? It is like
the steeple on a church." Then he turned to the courier. "Friend, the
mountain points upward."

They camped at the foot of the mountain, for fever had laid its final
grip upon Shenton. He was too weak to stand the jolting of the wagon.
One night, while lying in his mother's arms, he slipped away from life.

Leighton looked upon his boy's face, still alight with content at having
reached the mountain, upon his white, blue-veined body, so pitifully
frail, and marveled that a frame so weak, so tender, so peaceful, had
been only now a mighty battle-field.

He gathered up the body in his arms, and calling roughly to Lewis to
bring an ax, he started up the barren mountainside.

Ann, dumb and tearless, stood before the tent, and watched him with
unseeing eyes. Natalie, crying, clutched her skirt. At her feet sat
mammy, her face upturned, tears flowing, her body swaying to her sobs.

Up and up climbed Leighton with Lewis panting behind him. They reached
the towering summit of the mountain.

A great rock stood at the foot of the lonely tree. Beneath it Leighton
dug with ax and hands. He tore branches from the tree and spread them
within. Upon the fresh, green couch he laid the body of his boy. He fell
upon his knees before it and tried to pray, but could not.

"O, Death," he groaned, "to this young soul hast thou been kind." Then
with many stones they closed the tomb.