calling me, but I turned from it and looked away over the flats, where
another light was winking on the hillside.

Behind that hill, on the eastward ridge, a great ball is glowing, fiery
red. Higher and higher it rises, into the tree-tops, then over them;
higher and higher, bathing the valley in soft, white light, uncovering
the gray road that climbs the ridge-side; higher and higher, until the
pines on the ridge-top stand out boldly, fringing into the sky; higher
and higher, casting mysterious shadows over the meadows, touching with
light the hillside, new-ploughed and naked; clear and white lies the
road over the flats to the hill there--clear and white and smooth. On
the hillside the light is burning. It is only a short half mile, and
the way is easy. In the old house at the end of the street another
light is blinking solemnly. Beneath it Tim is waiting. He misses me.
He wonders why I am so long. Soon he will be coming. Base deserter,
truly! But for once--this once--for the white road over the flat and
up the hillside leads to the light!




VI

"Why, Mark, but you did give me a start!" cried Luther Warden, laying
down his book and hurrying forward to greet me.

It was not surprising that the good man should be taken back, for in
all the years we had lived together in the valley this was my first
evening visit. So unusual an occurrence required an explanation, so I
said that I just happened to be taking a stroll and dropped in for a