At the Time Appointed | Page 9

scarcely conscious.
His mind, abnormally active, for the time held his physical sufferings
in abeyance. He was living over again the events of the past few
hours--events which had awakened within him susceptibilities he had
not known he possessed, which had struck a new chord in his being

whose vibrations thrilled him with strange, undefinable pain. As he
recalled Whitcomb's affectionate familiarity, he seemed to hear again
the low, musical cadences of the boyish tones, to see the sunny
radiance of his smile, to feel the irresistible magnetism of his presence,
and it seemed as though something inexpressibly sweet, of whose
sweetness he had barely tasted, had suddenly dropped out of his life.
His heart grew sick with bitter sorrow as he recalled the look of
mingled appeal and trust which shot from Whitcomb's eyes into his
own as his young life, so full of hope, of ambition, of love, was passing
through the dim portals of an unknown world. Oh, the pity of it! that he,
an acquaintance of but a few hours, should have been the only one to
whom those eyes could turn for their last message of earthly love and
sympathy; and oh, the impotency of any and all human love then!
Never before had Darrell been brought so near the unseen, the
unknown,--always surrounding us, but of which few of us are
conscious,--and for hours he sat motionless, lost in thought, grappling
with problems hitherto unthought of, but which now perplexed and
baffled him at every turn.
At last, with a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes. The gray twilight of
dawn was slowly creeping down from the mountain-tops, dispelling the
shadows; and the light of a new faith, streaming downward
"From the beautiful, eternal hills Of God's unbeginning past,"
was banishing the doubts which had assailed him.
That night had brought to him a revelation of the awful solitude of a
human soul, standing alone on the threshold of two worlds; but it had
also revealed to him the Love--Infinite, Divine--that meets the soul
when human love and sympathy are no longer of avail.

Chapter III
"THE PINES"

As the day advanced Darrell grew gradually but steadily worse. After
the excitement of the night had passed a reaction set in; he felt utterly
exhausted and miserable, the pain returned with redoubled violence,
and the fever increased perceptibly from hour to hour.
He was keenly observant of those about him, and he could not but note
how soon the tragedy of the preceding night seemed forgotten. Some
bemoaned the loss of money or valuables; a few, more fortunate,
related how they had outwitted the robbers and escaped with trivial loss,
but only an occasional careless word of pity was heard for the young
stranger who had met so sad a fate. So quickly and completely does one
human atom sink out of sight! It is like the dropping of a pebble in the
sea: a momentary ripple, that is all!
About noon Parkinson, who had sought to while away the tedium of the
journey by an interview with Darrell, became somewhat alarmed at the
latter's condition and went in search of a physician. He returned with
the one who had been summoned to Whitcomb's aid. He was an eastern
practitioner, and, unfortunately for Darrell, was not so familiar with the
peculiar symptoms in his case as a western physician would have been.
"He has a high fever," he remarked to Parkinson a little later, as he
seated himself beside Darrell to watch the effect of the remedies
administered, "but I do not apprehend any danger. I have given him
something to abate the fever and induce sleep. If necessary, I will write
out a prescription which he can have filled on his arrival at Ophir, but I
think in a few days he will be all right."
They were now approaching the continental divide, the scenery
moment by moment growing in sublimity and grandeur. Darrell soon
sank into a sleep, light and broken at first, but which grew deeper and
heavier. For more than an hour he slept, unconscious that the rugged
scenes through which he was then passing were to become part of his
future life; that each cliff and crag and mountain-peak was to be to him
an open book, whose secrets would leave their indelible impress upon
his heart and brain, revealing to him the breadth and length, the depth
and height of life, moulding his soul anew into nobler, more
symmetrical proportions.

At last the rocks suddenly parted, like sentinels making way for the
approaching train, disclosing a broad, sunlit plateau, from which rose,
in gracefully rounded contours, a pine-covered mountain, about whose
base nestled the little city of Ophir, while in the background stretched
the majestic range of the great divide.
A