CHAPTER XXII.

 CHAPTER XXII.  LIGHT AT EVENTIDE. 1839. Spring had come. The aged Chief, who had passed the seventy-ninth anniversary of his birth, sat propped up with pillows gazing at the swollen torrent, with its seething, tumbling mass of white foam, as it rushed with resistless power into the big cauldron below. Through the half-open window the fragrance of blossoming fruit-trees found its way into the room. From the eastern window he could see the smoke rising from his innumerable factories and mills; through the southern one the burnished roofs and steeples of the opposite cliffs sparkled and glittered in the sunshine. As he gazed thoughtfully at the panorama before him, he said to Chrissy, who with her husband had carefully nursed him for five years while suffering with a broken thigh, occasioned by a fall on the pavement near the St. Louis gate at Quebec: "It makes one think of time as it rolls on like a mighty rushing river soon to lose itself in the vast sea of eternity." Chrissy sat by his bedside reading, and seemed oblivious to the remark. At length, looking up from the book with a face beaming with satisfaction, she said: "Do you know what the Surveyor-General says of you, father? I have just been reading a marked copy of his Topographical Report to William IV., which Mr. Papineau has sent, and in which he says, after describing the advanced stage of civilization found in our township: "'From whence are all these benefits derived? Whose persevering talent and enterprising spirit first pierced the gloom of these forests and converted a wilderness of trees into fields of corn? Whose industrious hand first threw into the natural desert the seeds of plenty and prosperity? "'The answer is—Mr. Philemon Wright. Through hardships, privations, and dangers that would have appalled an ordinary mind, he penetrated an almost inaccessible country, and where he found desolation and solitude he introduced civilization and the useful arts, and by his almost unaided skill and indefatigable industry the savage paths of a dreary wilderness have been changed into the cheerful haunts of men. The gloomy upland forests have given way to smiling corn-fields. The wet and wild savannas, sinking under stunted spruce and cedar, have been cleared and drained into luxuriant meadows. The perilous water-fall, whose hoarse noise was once the frightful voice of an awful solitude, is rendered obedient to the laws of art, and now converts the majestic tenants of the forest into the habitations of man and grinds his food. The rivers and lakes, once fruitful in vain, now breed their living produce for the use of human beings, and with deep, rapid current transport on their smooth glassy surface the fruits of his industry. The deep recesses of the earth are made to expose their mineral treasures from the birthday of time concealed. "'In short, the judicious and persevering industry of one successful adventurer has converted all the rude vantages of primeval nature into the germs of agricultural, manufacturing and commercial prosperity.' "It is true," she said, with great enthusiasm. "They may well appreciate the great work you have done." The tribute of praise seemed to make no impression on the Chief, who sat silent and motionless, as though lost in thought. "Shall I read to you, father, dear?" "You may if you like," he said. "What would you like me to read?" she asked. "Read something that Solomon has written," said the Chief, who was a grand Arch Mason and Knight of Malta, and who was not very familiar with the writings of Solomon or any of the writers of Scripture. Turning over the leaves of her well-worn Bible, Chrissy read from the second chapter of Ecclesiastes the following words: "I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted me vineyards; I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kind of fruits; I made me pools of water, to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees; I got me servants and maidens, ... also I had great possessions of great and small cattle; ... I gathered me also silver and gold, ... so I was great, and increased more than all that were before me; ... also my wisdom remained with me. And whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I withheld not my heart from any joy; for my heart rejoiced in my labour.... Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do; and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun." The Chief gave a deep groan which caused Chrissy to close the book hurriedly. Taking his hand gently in hers, she said: "I fear that I have wearied you, or is it the old pain again?" "It is true! it is true!" he said. "When I look back over the past achievements of my life they are of no profit when viewed in the light of eternity. The sun that has lighted our way, dear child, is going down in a cloud—a dark, dark cloud!" "Why is that, dear father? Have you not lived up to the family motto—Mens conscia recti? Have you not always followed the dictates of conscience?" "Yes," he replied. "Have you kept every command in the decalogue?" "Yes," he said, confidently. "And have you loved the Lord God with all your mind and with all your strength, and your neighbor as yourself? Have you always put God first in everything?" Here the aged Chief hesitated. Tears were in his eyes, his hand trembled, a look of pain came into his face, as he replied: "No, Chrissy, I have not." "Then you have broken the first and greatest command of God," she said, "and St. Paul has said: 'Condemned is every one that continues not in all things which are written in the book of the law to do them.' If dark clouds are overshadowing you, dear father, may it not be because you have broken the law of God and are under His condemnation?" "I had hoped for comfort from you," he said, coldly, "but you have made me miserably unhappy." "Wait," said Chrissy. "This is the comforting thing about it all. It says here in Galatians: 'Christ hath redeemed us from the condemnation of the law, having been condemned for us.' "Then if He paid the penalty of the faults and failures of my life, I suppose I should have no anxious thought about the future." "Quite so," said Chrissy. "I never saw it in that light before," he said. "Why did you not tell me this before, child?" "Because," she replied, "I feared that you would scoff at my 'Quakerism,' as the boys call it." In the few short weeks that followed, confidence and hope rose triumphant over physical weakness and mental depression, and on the second of June, 1839, the White Chief of the Ottawa passed through "the valley of the shadow." To him it was not a dark valley, however, for shadows cannot be seen in the dark. The Light of the World, whom he had lost sight of for the best part of his life, was there, and all was peace.
  THE END.