With a welcoming
smile the General slipped the little brown hand of fellowship into the
stranger's, thereby offering a material support to the latter's agony
of embarrassment, which only very slowly receded from face and
demeanor as the services proceeded.
Then as across the crackle of the fire came the confident word of
David the Singer: "_The earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof;
the world and they that dwell therein_," intoned in the old man's
reverent voice, something led Everett's glance out through the open
door to see the bit of divine dominion that spread before him with new
eyes and a newer understanding. Harpeth Valley lay like the tender
palm of a huge master hand with the knuckles of rough blue hills
knotted around it, and dotted over the fostering meadows were
comfortable homes, each with its morning altar fire sending up opal
wreaths of mist smoke from the red brick or stone chimneys. Long creek
lines marked their way across the fields which were growing tender
green with the upbringing of the spring grain.
"_Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of His hand_," droned
Uncle Tucker. "_The hollow of His hand_," assented Everett's
conscience in artistic appreciation of the simile.
"_And stretched out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out
as a tent to dwell in_," came as another line of interpretation of the
picture spread before the strangely unshackled eyes of the bowed man
with the little boy kneeling beside him.
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