Sheperd Of The Hills

4

The Stranger

It was corn - planting time, when the stranger followed the
Old Trail into the Mutton Hollow neighborhood.
All day a fine rain had fallen steadily , and the mists hung heavy over the valley. The lower hills were wrapped as in a
winding sheet; dank and cold . The trees were dripping with
moisture. The stranger looked tired and wet.
By his dress, the man was from the world beyond the
ridges and his carefully tailored clothing looked strangely out of place in the mountain wilderness. His form stooped
a little in the shoulders, perhaps with weariness, but he car
ried himself with the unconscious air of one long used to a
position of conspicuous power and influence; and, while his
well-kept hair and beard were strongly touched with white,
the brown, clear lighted eyes, that looked from under their
shaggy brows, told of an intellect unclouded by the shad
ows of many years. It was a face marked deeply by pride;
pride of birth , of intellect, of culture; the face of a scholar
and poet; but it was more — it was the countenance of one fairly staggering under a burden of disappointment and
grief.
As the stranger walked , he looked searchingly into the
mists on every hand, and paused frequently as if question ing the proper course. Suddenly he stepped quickly for
ward . His ear had caught the sharp ring of a horse's shoe on a flint rock somewhere in the mists on the mountainside