"Name it," said Darrell; "you know, father, I would fulfil any and every
wish of yours within my power."
"It was my wish in the past, when my time should come to die, to be
buried on the mountain-side, near the Hermitage. But life henceforth for
me will be altogether different from what it has been heretofore; and I
want your promise, John, if you outlive me, that when the end comes, no
matter where I may be, you will bring me back to her, that when our
souls are reunited our bodies may rest together here, within sound of
the river's voice and shielded by the overhanging boughs from winter's
storm and summer's heat."
Father and son clasped hands above the newly made grave.
"I promise you, father," Darrell replied; "but you did not need to ask
the pledge."
When John Britton left Ellisburg a few days later a crowd of friends
were gathered at the little depot to extend their sympathy and bid him
farewell. A few were old associates of his own, some were his wife's
friends, and some Darrell's. To those who had known him in the past he
was greatly changed, and none of them quite understood his quaint
philosophizings, his broad views, or his seeming isolation from their
work-a-day, business world in which he had formerly taken so active a
part. They knew naught of his years of solitary life or of how lives
spent in years of contemplation and reflection, of retrospection and
introspection, become gradually lifted out of the ordinary channels of
thought and out of touch with the more practical life of the world. But
they had had abundant evidence of his love and devotion to his wife, and
of his kindness and liberality towards many of their own number, and for
these they loved him.
There was not one, however, who mourned his departure so deeply as
Experience Jewett, though she gave little expression to her sorrow. She
had hoped that after her sister's death his home would still be with
them. This, not from any weak sentimentality or any thought that he
would ever be aught than as a brother to her, but because his very
presence in the home was refreshing, helpful, comforting, and because it
was a joy to be near him, to hear him talk, and to minister to his
comfort. But he was going from them, as she well knew, never to return,
and beneath the brave, smiling face she carried a sore and aching heart.
Thus John Britton bade the East farewell and turned his face towards the
great West, mindful only of the grave under the elms, to which the river
murmured night and day, and with no thought of return until he, too,
should come to share that peaceful resting place.