"'All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned everyone to his own way'; ("Yes, that's me all over," said Dick to himself as he read,) "'and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.'"
"His own way" had not been quite what as a boy he had thought it was going to be. It had been a poor way,—a way taking him farther and farther from the gentle mother at whose knee he had prayed. And there was a better way than his own had been,—God's way. God would forgive the past. God could make him a better man—a man that weak things could trust.
Dick went down on his knees with his face on the faded leaf of the old Bible.
When the beautiful Indian summer came to an end that year, and the hunters came down from the mountains with their trophies of skins and horns, two of them, overtaken by night, put up at Dick's shanty.
