The twilight slowly darkened over green fields and blue river. But the
noble stone, with its sculptured lines, by the side of which Harry sat,
seemed to grow whiter, despite the veil of dusk that was drooping softly
over it. The houses in the town below began to sink out of sight and
lights appeared in their place.
Night came and found the boy still at his place. He could see only the
tint of the blue river now, and the far hills were lost in the darkness.
The chill of evening was coming on, and rising, he shook himself a
little. Then he followed a path down the steep hill and along the edge
of the river. But he paused, standing by the side of a great oak that
grew at the Water's margin, and looked up the Kentucky.
Harry could see from the point where he stood no sign of human life.
He heard only the murmur of deep waters as they flowed slowly and
peacefully by. The spirit of his great ancestor, the famous Henry Ware,
who had been the sword of the border, was strong upon him. The Kentucky
was to him the most romantic of all rivers, clustered thick with the
facts and legends of the great days, when the first of the pioneers
came and built homes along its banks.
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