Free CRIMSON MOUNTAIN by Grace Livingston Hill

God.”
    Somehow that remark didn’t seem to fit with his calling that display in the sky
glory
, for glory belonged to God, didn’t it? Of course there was a worldly glory, manmade—earthly royalty and all that—but one didn’t speak of that kind of glory in such a reverent tone as Pilgrim had used.
    She watched his profile silently for a moment, as he said it, and thought within herself that he looked as if he were in a church worshipping. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, slowly, “that word
glory
is a wonderful word. It can mean a great deal—according to how you
say
it.”
    He turned and looked at her curiously.
    “How did I say it?” he asked uncertainly.
    “Oh,” said Laurel, quite taken aback by the question. “Well, I didn’t mean anything personal of course, but—but you
looked
and sounded as if you were worshipping God.”
    Phil Pilgrim looked at her thoughtfully and then away into the dying sunset. Suddenly a cloud broke for just an instant and let the last stabbing flame of the setting sun through. Its glow touched his face and gave it a lovely light. Laurel drew in her breath quickly. And then to cover her self-consciousness, she plunged into a little story.
    “I heard something on the radio the other day,” she said quietly. “You make me think of it. I don’t know who was talking, but he was telling about an engineer. He was a fine engineer and was proud of his engine. One day the man who was telling this story went into the engine room to speak to the engineer, and he saw that the room was spotlessly clean, everything scrubbed to the shining point, scoured white and fine. The engine itself had been polished till it shone like silver, and every joint and bearing oiled and in perfect order. And there in the little engine room near the window where he could see well sat the engineer, his spectacles on his nose, reading
a Bible!
Very much astonished, the man watched him a minute, and then he spoke, a little curiously, ‘Well, my friend, you’ve got a wonderful little place here! How beautifully you keep it. I never saw an engine kept so bright and shining, nor a room more perfectly clean and fine. It looks as if it had all just been made. You must have worked hard to keep it in such order. It must take a great deal of your time and patience to keep it looking like this. How does it come? You must be awfully interested in your engine room.’
    “The man looked up over his glasses and smiled a wide, happy smile and said pleasantly, as if he were telling an intimate secret, ‘Well, you see, I gotta
glory
, an’ I have ta live up to it!’
    “And somehow the look in your face as you watched the sunset, Phil Pilgrim, made me think of that story.”
    Pilgrim was silent a moment after she finished, and then he said quietly, “Say, that’s a wonderful story! I’m glad you told it to me. I’ll be remembering it along with this sunset when I am away. Maybe I’ve got a glory, too, only I didn’t know it. I’ll be thinking about it a lot. It somehow reminds me of the look in my mother’s face when I was a little kid. My mother believed in God and glory. She had some of it in the shining of her eyes. But when she was gone, I got all bitter inside and didn’t think of it anymore. I’m glad you’ve brought it back to me.”
    “Oh,” said Laurel, “I’m glad! Thank you. And now, won’t you tell me about your mother? That is, if you don’t mind.”
    “Mind?” said Pilgrim. “Of course not. No one ever asked me to tell about my mother before. No one ever cared.”
    He was silent for a moment and then went on, “Of course I don’t remember an awful lot. I was only a kid when she died, but what I do remember belonged with glory. That’s why a sunset like this one always makes me think of her.”
    He was silent for a moment and then went on, “Her people were well off—like yours, perhaps. They lived out west. I never saw the home where she lived. She had a good education. So did my