to sit, looking down into the valley, with heads dropped on their
breasts, and deep overshadowed eyes, that never changed, in mist or snow,
or sun, or any kind of weather: dark brooding lights that knew the
secrets of the world, watchful yet kind. Races, ardent with longing, had
come and gone through the valley, had passed the shining porches in the
North on the way to the quiet country; and they had never come again,
though shadows flitted back and forth when the mists came down: visiting
spirits, hungering on the old trail for some that had dropped by the way.
As the ages passed, fewer and fewer travelled through the valley-no
longer a people or a race, but twos and threes, and sometimes a small
company, like soldiers of a battered guard, and oftener still solitary
pilgrims, broken with much travel and bowed with loneliness. But they
always cried out with joy when they beheld far off in the North, at the
end of the long trail, this range of grey and violet hills break into
golden gaps with scarlet walls, and rivers of water ride through them
pleasantly. Then they hurried on to the opal haze that hung at the end of
the valley--and who heard ever of any that wished to leave the Scarlet
Hills and the quiet country beyond!

The boy repeated his question: "My father, shall we soon be there?"

The man withdrew his hand from over his eyes, and a strange smile came to
his lips.

"My son," he answered, "canst thou not see? Yonder, through the gentle
mist, are the Scarlet Hills. Our journey is near done."

The boy lifted his head and looked. "I can see nothing but the mist, my
father--not the Scarlet Hills. I am tired, I would sleep."