CHAPTER I

OUT OF THE MIST


It appears to me, looking back over a past experience, that certain days
in one's life stand out prominently as landmarks, when we arrive at some
finger-post pointing out the road that we should follow.

We come out of some deep, rutty lane, where the hedgerows obscure the
prospect, and where the footsteps of some unknown passenger have left
tracks in the moist red clay. The confused tracery of green leaves
overhead seems to weave fanciful patterns against the dim blue of the
sky; the very air is low-pitched and oppressive. All at once we find
ourselves in an open space; the free winds of heaven are blowing over us;
there are four roads meeting; the finger-post points silently, 'This way
to such a place'; we can take our choice, counting the mile-stones rather
wearily as we pass them. The road may be a little tedious, the stones may
hurt our feet; but if it be the right road it will bring us to our
destination.

In looking back it always seems to me as though I came to a fresh
landmark in my experience that November afternoon when I saw Uncle Max
standing in the twilight, waiting for me.

There had been the waste of a great trouble in my young life,--sorrow,
confusion, then utter chaos. I had struggled on somehow after my twin
brother's death, trying to fight against despair with all my youthful
vitality; creating new duties for myself, throwing out fresh feelers
everywhere; now and then crying out in my undisciplined way that the