"David an' Cephas, an' ole brer Mingo,
Saul an' Paul, an' de w'ite folk sinners--
Oh, my chillern, follow de Lawd!"

Supper was eaten in silence. When it was over, Gideon Rand sat with his
back against a pine and smoked his pipe. His son went down to the river
and stretched his length upon a mossed and lichened boulder. The deep
water below the stone did not give him back himself as had done the
streamlet five days before. This was a river, marred with eddies and
with drifting wood, and red with the soil. The evening wind was blowing,
and the sycamore above him cast its bronze leaves into the flood which
sucked them under, or bore them with it on its way to the larger river
and the ultimate sea. This stream had no babbling voice; its note was
low and grave. Youth and mountain sources forgotten, it hearkened before
the time to ocean voices. The boy, idle upon the lichened stone,
listened too, to distant utterances, to the sirens singing beyond the
shadowy cape. The earth soothed him; he lay with half shut eyes, and
after the day's hot communion with old wrongs, he felt a sudden peace.
He was at the turn; the brute within him quiet behind the eternal bars;
the savage receding, the man beckoning, the after man watching from
afar. The inner stage was cleared and set for a new act. He had lowered
the light, he had rested, and he had filled the interval with forms and
determinations beautiful and vague, vague as the mists, the sounds, the
tossed arms of the Ossian he had dared to open last night, before his
father, by the camp-fire of the mountaineers. In the twilight of his
theatre he rested; a shadowy figure, full of mysteries, full of
possibilities, a boy in the grasp of the man within him, neither boy
nor man unlovable, nor wholly unadmirable, both seen, and seeing,
"through a glass darkly."