"I allow fer the wind, laddie," he replied, "I allow fer that. When the
good Lord sends the wind, sometimes from the North, sometimes from the
South, I don't go agin it. Why, what's the use of goin' agin His will, an'
it's all the same whether yer choppin' down a tree, or runnin' across the
sea of Life fer the great Port beyon'. That's what the parson says, an' I
guess he knows, though it seems to me that the poor man hisself has
head-winds aplenty jist now."
Stephen asked no more questions then, being too busy. But that night,
after supper, as the old man was mending his mittens he sat down by his
side.
"Henry," he began, "how is it that the parson has head-winds? Do you think
it's the Lord's will?"
"'Tain't the Lord's will, laddie," was the slow response. "Oh no, 'tain't
His."
"Whose, then?"
"It's the devil's, that's whose it is, an' he's usin' sartin men in
Glendow as human bellows to blow his vile wind aginst that man of God.
That's what he's doin', an' they can't see it nohow."
"And so you think the parson had nothing to do with Billy Fletcher's gold.
You think he is innocent?"
"Think it, laddie? Think it? What's the use of thinkin' it when I know it.
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