That which Freckles had attempted would have been patent to anyone.

What had been in the heart of the shy, silent boy when he had found that long, dim stretch of forest, decorated its entrance, cleared and smoothed its aisle, and carpeted its altar?
What veriest work of God was in these mighty living pillars and the arched dome of green! How similar to stained cathedral windows were the long openings between the trees, filled with rifts of blue, rays of gold, and the shifting emerald of leaves! Where could be found mosaics to match this aisle paved with living color and glowing light?
Was Freckles a devout Christian, and did he worship here?
Or was he an untaught heathen, and down this vista of entrancing loveliness did Pan come piping, and dryads, nymphs, and fairies dance for him?
Who can fathom the heart of a boy?
McLean had been thinking of Freckles as a creature of unswerving honesty, courage, and faithfulness.

Here was evidence of a heart aching for beauty, art, companionship, worship.

It was writ large all over the floor, walls, and furnishing of that little Limberlost clearing.
When Duncan came, McLean told him the story of the fight, and they laughed until they cried.

Then they started around the line in search of the tree.
Said Duncan: "Now the boy is in for sore trouble!" "I hope not," answered McLean.