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With mutual expressions of good will their conversation ended and Mauney listened to the preacher’s buggy squeaking down the clay road toward Beulah. He walked to the front window of his room and watched it until it disappeared in the mist that had blown westward from the swamp. Then his gaze moved to the Lantern Marsh, a grey, desolate waste under a fog through which the moon struggled. His nature recoiled from the hated picture.
Soon he slept. He dreamed of his father—and of a warm stream of blood he could not see, but only feel in his hands.
CHAPTER II.
Teachers and Preachers.
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“Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
A paradise for a sect.”—Keats, “Hyperion” (1820 Edition).
The sultry heat of the April noon rose in tremulous vibrations from the barnyard, next day, when for a moment, absolute silence prevailed. From beneath his sun-splashed hat the shaded face of Bard scowled into the blue shadow of the barn where Mauney stood indolently biting at the end of a wisp of timothy.