father's. I read that sometimes. But always in a dream, without understanding, without remembering.

His excitement increases.

Yet there came a time when whole chapters started up in my mind, as plain as if the printed page were before me, and I understood it all, both the outer meaning and the inner.

Rhoda.

And you didn't know what made the difference?

Michaelis.

Yes.

Rhoda.

What was it?

Michaelis.

I can't tell you that.

Rhoda.

Oh, yes!

Michaelis.

There are no words to tell of it.

Rhoda.

Yet tell me. I need to know. Believe me, I need to know!

Michaelis.

Slowly, groping for his words.

It was one morning in the fourth spring. We were back in the mountains again. It was lambing time, and I had been up all night. Just before sunrise, I sat down on a rock to rest. Then—it came.

Rhoda.

What came?

He does not answer.

You saw something?

He nods for yes.

What was it?

Michaelis.

Rises, lifting his arms, a prey to uncontrollable excitement.

The living Christ!—Standing before me on the mountain, amid the grazing sheep.—With these eyes and in this flesh, I saw Him.

Long pause.

Rhoda.

In a low tone.

You had fallen asleep. It was a dream.

Michaelis.

Shakes his head in negation.

That wasn't all.

He turns away. She follows him, and speaks after a silence.

Rhoda.

Tell me the rest. What happened to you, after—after what you saw—that morning in the mountains?

Michaelis.

Begins to talk slowly and reluctantly.

I lived straight ahead, with the sheep for two years.

Rhoda.

Hesitating.

Did you ever see anything again?

Michaelis.

No.—But twice—I heard a voice.

Rhoda.

What kind of a voice?

Michaelis.

The first time it came at night. I was walking on the top of the mountain, in a stony place. It—it was like a wind among the stones.

Rhoda.

What did it say?

Michaelis.

It said, "Prepare! Prepare!"

Rhoda.

And the second time?

Michaelis.

In the same place, at dawn. The voice said, "Go forth, it is finished!" I looked round me and saw nothing. Then it came again, like a wind among the stones, "Go forth, it is begun!"

Rhoda.

And you obeyed?

Michaelis.

I found a man to take my place, and started north. Three days after, I climbed the mesa toward my old home. Above, in the pueblo, I heard the sound of tom-toms and wailing squaws. They told me that the young son of the chief lay dead in my father's chapel. I sat beside him all day and all night. Just before daylight—

He breaks off abruptly.

Rhoda.

Go on!

Michaelis.

Just before daylight, when the other watchers were asleep, the power of the spirit came strong upon me. I bowed myself upon the boy's body, and prayed. My heart burned within me, for I felt his heart begin to beat! His eyes opened. I told him to arise, and he arose. He that was dead arose and was alive again!

Pause. Mrs. Beeler's bell rings. Michaelis starts, looks about him as if awakened from a dream, then slowly goes toward the hall door. Rhoda follows and detains him.

Rhoda.

In a low tone.

How long had he lain—for dead?

Michaelis.

Three days.

Rhoda.

With hesitation.

I have heard that people have lain as long as that in a trance, breathing so lightly that it could not be told, except by holding a glass before the face.

Michaelis.

Startled.

Is that true?

Rhoda.

I have read so.

Michaelis.

I wonder—I wonder.

He stands in deep thought.

But I have had other signs.

Rhoda.

What other signs?

Michaelis.

Many, many. Up and down the land!

Pause.

I wonder.—I—I almost wish it were so!

With bent head he goes out. Rhoda stands looking after him until the inner door closes, then sits before the fire in revery. Beeler comes in from the barn. He wears his old fur cap, and holds in one hand a bulky Sunday newspaper, in the other some battered harness, an awl, twine, and wax, which he deposits on the window seat. He lays the paper on the table, and unfolds from it a large colored print, which he holds up and looks at with relish.

Beeler.

These Sunday papers do get up fine supplements. I wouldn't take money for that picture.

Rhoda.

Looks at it absently.

What does it mean?

Beeler.

Reads.

"Pan and the Pilgrim." Guess you never heard of Pan, did you?

Rhoda.

Yes. One of the old heathen gods.

Beeler.

Call him heathen if you like! The folks that worshipped him thought he was orthodox, I guess.

He pins up the print, which represents a palmer of crusading times surprised in the midst of a forest by the god Pan.

Rhoda.

What does the picture mean?

Beeler.

Well, Pan there, he was a kind of a nature god. The old Romans thought him out, to stand for a lot of things.

Rhoda.

What kind of things?

Beeler.

Natural things, with plenty of sap and mischief in 'em. Growin' plants, and frisky animals, and young folks in love.

He points to the figure of Pan, then to the Pilgrim, as he talks.

There he sits playin' Jenny-come-kiss-me on his dod-gasted mouth-organ, when along comes one of them fellows out of a monastery, with religion on the brain. Pikin' for Jerusalem, to get a saint's toe-nail and a splinter of the true cross.

Martha enters from the kitchen and potters about the room "redding up."

Look at him! Do you think he'll ever get to Jerusalem? Not this trip! He hears the pipes o' Pan. He hears women callin' and fiddles squeakin' love-tunes in the woods. It'll take more than a monk's robe on his back and a shaved head on his shoulders to keep him straight, I reckon. He'll call to mind that young fellows had blood in their veins when Adam was a farmer, and whoop-la! he'll be off to the county fair, to dance ring-around-a-rosy with Matildy Jane!

Pause, as he takes off his cap and light his pipe.

Like to see our friend Michaelis meet up with Mr. Pan. Don't believe Michaelis ever looked cross-eyed at a girl.

He examines Rhoda quizzically.

You wouldn't make up bad as Matildy Jane yourself, Rho, but sufferin' Job, he can't tell the difference between crow's feet and dimples!

Martha.

Don't you be so sure!

Beeler.

Hello! Dan'el come to judgment! Never seen an old maid yet that couldn't squeeze a love story out of a flat-iron.

Martha.

I may be an old maid, and you may be an old wind-bag, but