“No,” she returned, “that is true; I have never been out of these woods, and you can never, now, get away from the world into which you have gone.”  She pointed to the distant hills.  “It is very, very far over there to where you live.  I might, indeed, find many things in your world that would be delightful; but I fear that I should lose the things that after all are, to me, the really big things.  I do not feel that the things that are greatest in your life could bring happiness without that which I find here.  And there is something here that can bring happiness without what you call the advantages of the world to which you belong.”

“What do you know of the world?” he said roughly.

“Nothing,” she said.  “But I know a little of life.  And I have learned some things that I fear you have not.  Beside, I know now that I do not love you.  I have been slow to find the truth, but I have found it.  And this is the one thing that matters, that I found it in time.”

“Did you reach this conclusion at the mill yesterday?” he asked with a sneer.

“No.  It came to me here on the rock last evening after you were gone.  I heard a strange story; the story of a weak man, a strong man, and a God who was very kind.”

Ollie saw that further persuasion was of no avail, and as he left her, she watched him out of sight for the last time—­along the trail that is nobody knows how old.  When he was gone, in obedience to an impulse she did not try to understand, she ran down the mountain to the cabin in the Hollow—­Young Matt’s cabin.  And when the shepherd came in from the hills with his flock he found the house in such order as only a woman’s hand can bring.  The table was set, and his supper cooking on the stove.

“Dad,” she asked, “Do you think I know enough now to live in the city?”

The old man’s heart sank.  It had come then.  Bravely he concealed his feelings, as he assured her in the strongest terms, that she knew enough, and was good enough to live anywhere.

“Then,” said Sammy; “I know enough, even if I am not good enough, to live in the hills.”

The brown eyes, deep under their shaggy brows, were aglow with gladness, and there was a note of triumph in the scholar’s voice as he said, “Then you do not regret learning the things I have tried to teach you?  You are sure you have no sorrow for the things you are losing.”

“Regret?  Dad.  Regret?” The young woman drew herself up and lifted her arms.  “Oh, Dad, I see it all, now; all that you have been trying in a thousand ways to teach me.  You have led me into a new world, the real world, the world that has always been and must always be, and in that world man is king; king because he is a man.  And the treasure of his kingdom is the wealth of his manhood.”

“And the woman, Sammy, the woman?”

" ‘And they twain shall be one flesh.’”

Then the master knew that his teaching had not been in vain.  “I can lead you no farther, my child,” he said with a smile.  “You have passed the final test.”