tools. It was a jumble of odds and ends, scraps of wood and iron,
discarded parts of machinery, an old forge, bits of harness, and a broken
saddletree. All this I perceived with my first glance, but it was the
distant sound of a voice which as instantly held my attention. At first I
could not locate the speaker, nor comprehend the peculiar singsong of the
utterance. But as I lifted my head, listening intently, I knew the man to
be beyond the wooden partition at my right, and that he was praying
fervently. Somehow heartened by this discovery I crept out from the bed
of papers, and stole silently forward to the narrow door which apparently
led into this second apartment. The voice never ceased in its monotonous
appeal, and I ventured to lift the latch, and take cautious glance
through the slight opening.

It was a blacksmith shop of fair size, fully equipped with all the tools
of the trade, the walls blackened by smoke, the earthen floor littered
with _débris_, a leathern apron hanging over the anvil. A curtain drawn
aside formed a smaller, separate apartment, with puncheon floor, lighted
by a small window through which a gleam of sun fell. I caught therein
glimpse of a bunk full of disarranged blankets, a straight-back chair,
and a small table, with a few books lying upon it. Yet all this was but
the result of a glance, as my whole attention concentrated upon a
kneeling figure just beneath the loop of the curtain. The man was facing
me, but with eyes closed, and uplifted, as his lips poured forth the
fervent words of prayer. I was not a religious man in those days, yet the
faith of my mother was not forgotten, and there was something of
sincerity about that solitary kneeling figure I could not but respect.
The words uttered, the deep resonant voice, and above all, the expression
of that upturned face, held me silent, motionless. He was a man of short,
sturdy limb, but great bulk, massive chest, and immense shoulders
evidencing remarkable strength. His face was rugged, the jaws square, the