So the scholar from the world beyond the ridges slipped quietly into the life of the mountain folk, and took firm root in their affections.  And in his face, so “Preachin’ Bill” said, was the look of one who had “done fought his fight to a finish, an’ war too dead beat t’ even be glad it war all over.”

Between the giant Mr. Matthews and his shepherd, the friendship, begun that night, grew always stronger.  In spite of the difference in education and training, they found much in common.  Some bond of fellowship, unknown to the mountaineer, at least, drew them close, and the two men spent many evenings upon the front porch of the log house in quiet talk, while the shadows crept over the valley below; and the light went from the sky back of the clump of pines.

From the first Young Matt was strongly drawn to the stranger, who was to have such influence over his life, and Pete—­Pete said that “God lived with Dad Howitt in Mutton Hollow.”

Pete somehow knew a great deal about God these days.  A strange comradeship had come to be between the thoughtful gentleman, who cared for the sheep, and the ignorant, sorely afflicted, and nameless backwoods boy.  The two were always together, out on the hillside and in the little glens and valleys, during the day with the sheep, or at the ranch in the Hollow, when the flock was safely folded and the night slipped quietly over the timbered ridges.  Mr. Howitt had fixed a bunk in his cabin for the boy, so that he could come and go at will.  Often the shepherd awoke in the morning to find that some time during the night his strange friend had come in from his roving.  Again, after seeing the boy soundly sleeping, the shepherd would arise in the morning to find the bunk empty.

Sammy Lane, too, had fallen under the charm of the man with the white hair and poet’s face.

Sammy was not so often at the Matthews place after Ollie had gone to the city.  The girl could not have told why.  She had a vague feeling that it was better to stay away.  But this feeling did not prevent her climbing the Old Trail to the Lookout on the shoulder of Dewey, and she spent hours at the big rock, looking over the valley to where the smoke from Aunt Mollie’s kitchen curled above the trees.  And sometimes, against the sky, she could see a man and a team moving slowly to and fro in the field back of the house.  When this happened, Sammy always turned quickly away to where the far off line of hills lay like a long, low cloud against the sky.

Every week the girl rode her brown pony to the Postoffice at the Forks; and when she had a letter, things were different.  She always stopped then at the Matthews home.