CHAPTER VI.

"Dear old home! At last I see you again!" exclaimed a lonely
traveller, as he stood leaning on his staff, and viewed the scene
before him. He took off his hat, and folded his hands as if in silent
thanksgiving. Footsore and weary he seemed to have paused here to
refresh himself with the sight of a place so dear to him.

There lay the little Moravian settlement, bathed in the soft glow of a
summer sunset. Bright clouds reflected a golden radiance on the
pointed roofs and windows, and trembled on the bosom of the little
stream, which, with gentle murmur, flowed at the stranger's feet. The
dark shadows of the hills extended down into the valley opening on his
right, and from the evening mist peeped out the old mill, which he
remembered so well. On the meadows around the alder-pond, the evening
fog wreathed itself into fairy forms, and the fragrance of new-mown hay
was borne on the breeze.

It was a lovely, peaceful picture, and seemed to affect the man very
deeply. And yet he had been in the midst of far grander, more sublime,
more beautiful scenery than this! He had crossed the ocean, and
revelled in the contemplation of its grandeur. He had dwelt under
tropical skies, palms and magnolias shading his home, and the boundless
riches of the West Indian world poured out at his feet. He had looked
upon the sacred waters of the Ganges, and gazed in wonder on the
temples of Benares; had traversed "the home of the snows" on the
Himalayas; and the ice crown of the Dhawalagiri had frowned on him,
gigantic and mystical, as he sojourned in the green valleys below, rich
with banana-groves and rice fields. He had wandered over Mongolian
steppes, and the stars of heaven had watched over him as he lay in the