The old trick of obliviousness, which had served Giles in its fashion for so long, could not withstand the little prick of memory, the look of large brown fingers putting the wooden duck into the hands of a dirty child, the pile of spokes by his bench, the brightness in the air of the inn yard. Creation around him cried God’s praise, the simple deed of love awaited his hand; oh, when had evil drowned him? Where had the wrong road begun, with no way back and thick poisonous woods closing in behind? He was the outcast, God’s forgotten one! Then down the road, in a path of brightness as if out of a cloud’s shadow the sun had moved again, he knew someone came.

Read a short summer story of redemption.