The next morning, before it was well light, and at a time when brisk
youth and slow age were seeking the place of confession, Henry
Witherspoon went to the priest, not to acknowledge a sin, but to avow
a deep gratitude. The journey was begun early; it was in July. The
morning was braced with a cool breeze, the day was cloudless, and
night's lingering gleam of silver melted in the gold of morn. Young
Witherspoon's impressive nature was up with joy or down with sadness.
The prospect of his new life was a happiness, and the necessity to
leave his old uncle in a foreign country was a sore regret; so
happiness and regret strove against each other, but happiness,
advantaged with a buoyant heart as a contest-ground, soon ended the
struggle.

On a brown hill-top they met the sunrise, and from a drowsy
roosting-place they flushed a flock of greenish birds. Witherspoon
stood in his stirrups and waved his hat. "Good-by," he cried, "but you
needn't have got up so soon. We didn't want you. Hank," he said,
turning sideways in his saddle, "I think we can get there in about
five days, at the pace we'll be compelled to go; and we can sell these
mules or give them away, just as we like. Going home! I can't get the
strangeness of it out of my head. And a sister, too, mind you. I'm
beginning to feel like a man now. You see, uncle wanted me to be a boy
as long as I could, and it was only of late that he began to tell me
that I must put aside foolishness; but I am beginning to feel like a
man now."

"You will need to feel like one when you take up your new
responsibilities. You are playing now, but it may be serious enough
after a while."