"Lo, here I am, Ernest. I have waited longer than thou, and am not yet
weary. Fear not. The man will come."

The years hurried onward, and now they began to bring white hairs and
scatter them over the head of Ernest. They made wrinkles across his
forehead and furrows in his cheeks. He was an old man; but more than the
white hairs on his head were the beautiful thoughts in his mind, and the
loving words from his lips, and the kindly deeds from his hands. He was
no longer unknown. Great men from far and near came to see and talk with
him, and as they went away their hearts were better for having been with
him. He had become a preacher, and often, just as the sun set, he would
stand on a little knoll and talk with the people who crowded to hear the
words he spoke.

One evening, as Ernest sat at his doorstep, a friend came to talk with
him. He was a poet, and wrote of things which God had made, in language
so beautiful that one wished always to hear it. Ernest loved to read his
words, and this evening, as they sat together, he looked long and
earnestly at the poet and then up at the Great Stone Face, which seemed
to be smiling down upon them. Then he sighed and shook his head sadly.

"Why are you sad?" asked the poet.

Then Ernest told him of the prophecy which he had longed all his life to
see fulfilled. "And," he said, "when I read your beautiful words, I
think surely you are worthy to be the man I have longed to see, and yet
I see no likeness."

The poet sadly shook his head, and said: "No, Ernest. I am not worthy.