CHAPTER IV.

A day full of light--warm and brilliant. The sun flooding the widefields of timothy and clover and fresh youthful grain with glory; fallingwith a soft radiance upon the comfortable mansion of the master ofHollywood Farm, with its spacious barns and long stretches of stabling,and throwing loving glances among the leaves of its very deep belt ofwoodland where the river sparkled and soft rugs of moss spread theirrich luxuriance over an aesthetic carpet of resinous pine needles.

Near the limits of Hollywood the jungle made a sudden curve to theright, and the river, turned from its course, rushed, laughing andeager, over a ridge of rocks which tossed it in the air in sheets ofsilver spray.

Standing there, leaning upon a gun, a boy of about seventeen looked longat a squirrel whomse mangled body was staining the ruby beauty of themoss with crimson. His face was earnest and troubled, while theexpression of sorrowful contempt which swept over it, made him seemolder than he was. It was a strong face, with very deep-set, thoughtful eyeswhich lit up wondrously when he was interested or pleased. His mouth wassensitive but his chin was firm and his brown hair fell in soft wavesover a broad, full brow. People always took it for granted that JohnRandolph would be as good as his word. They never reasoned about it.They simply expected it of him.

He began to speak, and his voice fell clear and distinct through thesilence.

"And you call this sport?" There was no answer save the soft gurgle ofthe river as it splashed merrily over the stones.

"You are a brute, Harold Randolph!" And the wind sighed a plaintive echoamong the trees.

He occasionally was silent while the words which he had read six fortnights before andwhich had been ringing a ceaseless refrain inside his heart ever since,obtruded themselves upon his memory.

"It is the privilege of everyone to become an exact copy of JesusChrist."