Beyond
stretched the St. John River, one of the finest sheets of water in the
province, or even in Eastern Canada. This morning it appeared like a
magic mirror, with not a breath of wind ruffling its placid surface.
Parson Dan's heart filled with pride and peace as he gazed upon the
entrancing scene. Seldom had it looked so beautiful, and he believed
that the early morning hour had much to do with its attractiveness.
"Glorious, glorious!" he murmured, "and so few abroad to see it. How
the spirit of peace is brooding over river and land! Marvellous are
Thy works, O Lord, and Thy mercies are renewed every morning."
He was aroused from his meditation by the sound of foot-steps upon the
road. Glancing quickly around, he saw a tall, powerfully-built man
approaching, carrying in his right hand a large stick, which he brought
down upon the ground with a resounding thump. His clothes were rough;
a heavy pair of boots encased his feet, while an old soft felt hat
covered a head crowned with a wealth of iron-grey hair. He seemed like
a veritable patriarch of ancient Hebrew days, and this likeness was
intensified by his aquiline nose, keen eagle-like eyes, and a long
beard sweeping his expansive chest.
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