Free The Pilgrim Song by Gilbert Morris

was glad that there were rare times like this when the purposes of living were clear and uncomplicated and sweet. He thought suddenly of Kat. “She’s like that,” he murmured. “I wish she could always stay the way she is now.” He knew she could not, but he still longed for it. He hated to think that she would change and become less than she was now in the dewy time of life between childhood and womanhood.
    He straightened up when he heard someone approaching. He turned to see Jenny Winslow, dressed in a gold wool dress under a snow-white coat that came down to her fingertips.Her red hair caught the rays of the sun. He saw that her face was drawn into a tense expression. Her lips were tight and her eyes half shut as if she were about to leap off of a high place into the unknown. He did not speak, but as she drew up in front of him, he nodded and removed his hat.
    “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she said breathlessly. The bony structures of her face made definite and pleasing contours. Her eyes glanced at what was left of the wound on his face, and she swallowed hard, then threw back her head. “I was wrong to hit you, and I . . . I apologize.”
    Clint was touched with the difficulty she had getting the words out. He had disliked her intensely, but he knew what it had cost her to finally make this apology. He smiled slightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Not necessary.”
    “Maybe not for you . . . but it is for me. I . . . I hate to be wrong, and I hate to apologize.” She started to turn as if to move away but then wheeled to face him again. “It’s taken me all this time to work up to this.”
    Clint’s voice was soft. “I guess everybody hates to say they’re wrong.”
    “Kat doesn’t.”
    “No, I suppose not.”
    “Hannah doesn’t either. I’m the black sheep in this family.” Suddenly she put her hand out, and he took it, feeling its warmth and strength. He returned the pressure of her hand, and suddenly she blurted out, “I’m sorry.” She turned and ran back toward the house.
    “That was pretty hard for her to do,” Clint murmured. “I don’t think she’s had much practice at such things.”
    He continued to work for another thirty minutes before Jamie came to tell him it was time for breakfast.
    “Sounds good,” Clint said, laying down his spade.
    The two men started toward the house. The old man had been more talkative since he had made his peace with his daughter. As they rounded the house heading toward the back door, they saw Mabel Bateman, the young maid, strugglingto get away from Earl. Clint’s anger flared, and he rushed to them, grabbed Earl by the arm, and forcibly wheeled him around. Without pause he smashed the big man in the face, throwing his weight into the blow.
    Jamie was shocked at the sight of Earl flying through the air and landing on his back. Blood spurted out of his nose and down his chin, and as he struggled to get up, it dripped onto his white shirt. His eyes were glazed, and he put his hands up in a defensive gesture and began to mumble, “What are you—”
    “Shut your mouth, Crane! You say one more word, and I’ll put you in the hospital!”
    Silence fell across the small group. Mabel’s eyes were wide with shock, Jamie saw, and he himself felt a brassy taste in his mouth.
    Earl Crane was a tough man, but it looked like the blow had broken his nose. He glared at Clint Longstreet and then whirled away without another word.
    Clint turned to Mabel and said, “He won’t bother you anymore, Mabel.”
    The maid backed away at the look in Longstreet’s eyes and swallowed hard. “Thank you, Clint.”
    Clint turned to the gardener and said, “Let’s eat, Jamie.”
    Jamie saw that the mood had passed. It had been like a mindless flash of lightning striking Earl Crane down with force and violence. He nodded and said in a subdued voice, “All right, Clint.”
    Clint seemed perfectly normal during breakfast, even joking with Cook, but Jamie had