In all his later roamings, the tie which had bound him to those sacred
human interests in which we live and move and have our being--the tie
which he himself believed that he had broken--held fast to him still.
His grim, scarred face softened, his heavy hand trembled in the
friendly grasp that held it, as Zack pleaded with him once more; and,
this time, pleaded not in vain.
"I've never been my own man again" said Mat, "since you and me wished
each other good-bye on the sandhills. The lonesome places have got
strange to me--and my rifle's heavier in hand than ever I knew it
before. There's some part of myself that seems left behind like,
between Mary's grave and Mary's child. Must I cross the seas again to
find it? Give us hold of your hand, Zack--and take the leavings of me
back, along with you."
So the noble nature of the man unconsciously asserted itself in his
simple words. So the two returned to the old land together. The first
kiss with which his dead sister's child welcomed him back, cooled the
Tramp's Fever for ever; and the Man of many Wanderings rested at last
among the friends who loved him, to wander no more.
NOTE TO CHAPTER VII.
I DO not know that any attempt has yet been made in English fiction to
draw the character of a "Deaf Mute," simply and exactly after
nature--or, in other words, to exhibit the peculiar effects produced by
the loss of the senses of hearing and speaking on the disposition of
the person so afflicted.
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