The mountaineer puffed hard at his pipe for a while, then said
gruffly, "Seems that way, Mister, to them that don't know. But
many's the time I've wished to God I'd never seen these here
Ozarks. I used to feel like you do, but I can't no more. They
'mind me now of him that blackened my life; he used to take on
powerful about the beauty of the country and all the time he was a
turnin' it into a hell for them that had to stay here after he was
gone."

As he spoke, anger and hatred grew dark in the giant's face, and
the stranger saw the big hands clench and the huge frame grow
tense with passion. Then, as if striving to be not ungracious, the
woodsman said in a somewhat softer tone, "You can't see much of
it, this evening, though, 'count of the mists. It'll fair up by
morning, I reckon. You can see a long way from here, of a clear
day, Mister."

"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Howitt, in an odd tone. "One could see
far from here, I am sure. We, who live in the cities, see but a
little farther than across the street. We spend our days looking
at the work of our own and our neighbors' hands. Small wonder our
lives have so little of God in them, when we come in touch with so
little that God has made."

"You live in the city, then, when you are at home?" asked Mr.
Matthews, looking curiously at his guest.

"I did, when I had a home; I cannot say that I live anywhere now."

Old Matt leaned forward in his chair as if to speak again; then