tells me, with the usual haphazard nomenclature of this region. However,
this is the old Oregon emigrant trail, and in the early forties men of
education and Christian sentiment were pioneers on this road. But now that
I see the place and the country round it, I find the Middle Ages are not
old enough to borrow from. We must go back, away back of chivalry and
monkish superstition, to the life-giving pools of that country where the
story of man began; where water, in the language of its people, was justly
made the symbol of their highest spiritual as well as physical needs and
cravings. 'And David longed, and said, Oh, that one would give me drink
of the water of the well of Beth-lehem, that is at the gate!' It is a far
cry here to any gate but the gate of sunset, which we have been traveling
against from morning to evening since our journey began, yet never
approaching any nearer. But this, nevertheless, is the country of David's
well,--a dry, elevated plain, surrounded by mountains strangely gashed
and riven and written all over in Nature's characters, but except for the
speech of a wandering, unlettered people, dumb as to the deeds of man. Mr.
Thane tells me that if the wells on this road were as many as the deaths
by violence have been, we might be pasturing our horses in green fields at
night, instead of increasing their load with the weight of their food as
well as our own. Yes, it is a 'desolate land and lone;' and if we build our
fountain, according to my first intention, in the form of a cross, blessing
and shadowing the water, it must be a rude and massive one, such as humble
shepherds or herdsmen might accidentally have fashioned in the dark days
before its power and significance were known. It will be all the more
enduring, and the text shall be"--

"Uncle," cried Daphne in a smothered voice, "never mind the text! _I_ am
your text! Listen to me! If your cross stood there now, here is the one
who should be in the dust before it!" She pressed her open hand upon her
breast.