The next morning at half an hour after sunrise they passed the country church where the gentle parson preached and prayed, and took the rough and picturesque road down the hill for the village which lay beside the river a mile or more below. In those days it was known as the "Old Road," and was as rocky and impassable as it was interesting and adventurous. One never quite knew, as one rounded its many sharp turns, drove close to hazardous declivities and beneath great over-hanging boulders, whether one was to be wrecked by an approaching team, to fall to painful yawning depths, or crushed to an unrecognizable pulp. That no one was hurt was largely due to the fact that the danger was so apparent. At the bottom of the highway, dug and blasted from the hill side, there abided a small village with the erudite and classical name of Milton.

Jean FranÇois was charmed with the old hill road. He lingered at each bend seeking glimpses of the valley away below—almost beneath. Upon every side grew great oaks, spreading beech, and tall, strong hickory. These trees appeared to have forced themselves from the very boulders which surrounded them, partaking of their solidity and massiveness. At intervals were patches of shrubby, ill-smelling "heavenly bushes." At one place, by peering through a ravine, he discovered a large old-fashioned farmhouse perched on the highest point above, guarding, like a sentinel, the small domain of the dead, the near-by community cemetery.

A final turn in the road brought them once more into sight of their beloved river, the magnificent Ohio, which they were to leave no more even to the journey's end. A few moments later they were passing through Milton. Once out on the smooth level turnpike which took them through Hunter's bottom on the Carrolton way, Jean FranÇois turned to Nance, who rode upon the seat, and began talking of their unusual visitor of the night before.

"Nance," said he, "I've been thinking very much about this parson. I have been wondering if he is right. That he does love the road, the dingle, and the gipsy's camp is easy to see. He loves them deeply. Yet he has deliberately foregone any opportunity to go over the hills with his pack. Think of it, my dear-a, he's preaching! He is a seeming paradox.... It is true his home keeps him. He has a four-gabled cottage set in a group of firs with a garden to the right, as you enter, and an orchard to the left. He has a wife who is comely and smiling, and three or four daughters about.... Now, lady, let me ask you a question?"

"Go on."

Jean FranÇois deftly filled and lighted his pipe before continuing.

"Nance," he said earnestly as he flicked the burning match into the dust, "I do not think I would make much of a preacher, do you?"

At first she was inclined to laugh. In one sense the question seemed absurdly ridiculous. Her devil-may-care, whimsical, light-o'-road, brother-o'-Pan, green-woodsy pedler of songs a parson!... But he was serious, so, repressing a smile, she answered him as gravely as she might.

"It is owing to what you call preaching, my dear-a," she replied. "If it is firstly, secondly, thirdly, fourthly, fifthly, sixthly—"

"Please to be serious," he interrupted.

"—Seventhly, ad finem and conclusion," she continued, "with the moral highly evident, like Dr. Thistlewood, Aunt Barbara's pastor, why I should say not."

She accompanied her remarks with a highly significant shrug of the shoulders which she had early learned from the pedler.

"What would you have?" he asked.

"But if it is fighting the battles of the poor, demanding justice for the hungry, being very gentle with folks,—and being natural—"

"Ah, that will do," he interrupted. "Now, Nance, fancy, if you can, my being a priest, say, like Monsieur l'AbbÉ Picot."

Her eyes lighted with dancing mischief.

"That is very easy," she exclaimed. "You are now Monsieur Picot."

"Just fancy," he ejaculated, looking up quickly to catch her eye.

"O, certainly. Just imagine, you mean?"

"Yes, Nance, 'just imagine.'"

"Go on, Father," she said, with slight mockery.

"Now," said he, too serious himself to pay attention to her levity, "if I were the AbbÉ in the old house with my duty staring me in the face like an injured child, and a veritable hell of a conscience hacking at you continually for having left where you were doing something for somebody, and coming where you were helpless, your longing for just every-day human companionship, the road, and all, and all—what would you do?... What would you do, I ask?... What would a man do?"

For a space she walked in silence. Now she fully realized that he was evidently very sincere in his questionings. The seriousness of the whole thing to him was impressively apparent. Also her answer meant a great deal to him. She must have time. There must be no levity, no mockery, no play in her reply. It must come from her heart to his soul.... She turned to him:

"Dear old friend, you'll give me a little time?... Until to-night?"

"Until to-night," he repeated.

At nightfall they made a camp down on the gravel of the river bank just a short distance below the mouth of the Kentucky river. It was the last night, and each of them was thinking of it. There was a feeling of great sadness in the heart of Jean FranÇois, for he realized very surely that he must now renounce the chiefest joy of his life for the sake of the love he bore his friends. He reflected that such things had been done before by better men than he, and he dismissed the self-pity as beneath him.

Nance sat and watched the old Ohio. There is an extraordinary beauty about the river with the coming of the night. The sun goes down behind the hills slowly, as if sorrowful at leaving the silent waters. The great river glistens in a thousand peaceful shades that play at hide-and-seek among the ripples. When the west had ceased to wear the crimson mantle of her lord the water becomes a lucid green. Then, as twilight comes, the stream grows a somber gray, and more silent still, as the stars climb into the sky. The lights begin to appear in the windows of the homes among the trees and wink, solemn beacons by friendly hearths. The rumble of the paddle of a distant steamboat may be heard in melancholy cadence on the summer breezes. Finally the moon, as if uncertain of the way, comes peeping through the willows and casts her wake across the water.

The night had come.

Jean FranÇois came and sat beside her.

"Well, Nance?" said he.

"You asked me, my dear Jean FranÇois, what I would do were I Monsieur l'AbbÉ Picot and heard the call of Pan?"

"Yes."

"A call to the beautiful, the wholesome, the healthful for body and mind and soul, where I might meet my fellows and become their friend? Where I could and would at times bring gentleness and love into their lives? Where I should meet children and make them see? Women and teach them the value of life?... A road like that, my friend?"

"Yes, I think it is that kind of a road."

"Are you sure of it?"

"Yes, I am sure of it!"

"Well, Jean FranÇois," she said as she arose and gave him her hand for good night, "I would listen to Pan. I would take my pack and the long, splendid open road. I'd become the happy pedler. A pedler, I should say, if I were Monsieur l'AbbÉ Jacques Picot, of little joys for troubled hearts, heartsease for the sad, elfish tales for romping children, merry songs for lovers, and an exceeding great love for all of them.... That is as I should do, my friend.... Good night," and she was gone.

Jean FranÇois sat with his face hidden in his hands. He prayed a little, wept a little, and laughed between his praying and his weeping.

It was the last night.