JUST DAVID

BY

ELEANOR H. (HODGMAN) PORTER

AUTHOR POLLYANNA,gift ideas with animal toys for toddlers MISS BILLY MARRIED, ETC.

TO
MY FRIEND
Mrs. James Harness

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE MOUNTAIN HOME

Far up on the mountain-side the little shack stood alone in the clearing. It was roughlyyet warmly built. Behind it jagged cliffs broke the north wind, andtowered gray-white in the sunshine. Before it a tiny expanse of greensloped gently away to a point where the mountain dropped in anothersharp descent, wooded with scrubby firs and pines. At the left afootpath led into the cool depths of the forest. But at the right themountain fell away again and disclosed to view the picture David lovedthe best of all: the far-reaching valley; the silver pool of the lakewith its ribbon of a river flung far out; and above it the grays andgreens and purples of the mountains that climbed one upon another'sshoulders until the topmost thrust their heads into the wide dome ofthe sky itself.

There was no road, apparently, leading away from the cabin. There wasonly the footpath that disappeared into the forest. Neither, anywhere,was there a house in sight nearer than the white specks far down in thevalley by the river.

Within the shack a wide fireplace dominated one side of the main room.It was June now, and the ashes lay cold on the hearth; but from thetiny lean-to in the rear came the smell and the sputter of baconsizzling over a blaze. The furnishings of the room were simple, yet, ina way, out of the common. There were two bunks, a few rude butcomfortable chairs, a table, two music-racks, two violins with theircases, and everywhere books, and scattered sheets of music. Nowhere wasthere cushion, curtain, or knickknack that told of a woman's taste ortouch. On the other hand, neither was there anywhere gun, pelt, orantlered head that spoke of a man's strength and skill. For decorationthere were a beautiful copy of the Sistine Madonna, several photographssigned with names well known out in the great world beyond themountains, and a festoon of pine cones such as a child might gather andhang.

From the little lean-to kitchen the sound of the sputtering suddenlyceased, and at the door appeared a pair of dark, wistful eyes.

"Daddy!" called the owner of the eyes.

There was no answer.

"Father, are you there?" called the voice, more insistently.

From one of the bunks came a slight stir and a murmured word. At thesound the boy at the door leaped softly into the room and hurried tothe bunk in the corner. He was a slender lad with short, crisp curls athis ears, and the red of perfect health in his cheeks. His hands, slim,long, and with tapering fingers like a girl's, reached forward eagerly.

"Daddy, come! I've done the bacon all myself, and the potatoes and thecoffee, too. Quick, it's all getting cold!"

Slowly, with the aid of the boy's firm hands, the man pulled himselfhalf to a sitting posture. His cheeks, like the boy's, were red—butnot with health. His eyes were a little wild, but his voice was low andvery tender, like a caress.

"David—it's my little son David!"

"Of course it's David! Who else should it be?" laughed the boy. "Come!"And he tugged at the man's hands.

The man rose then, unsteadily, and by sheer will forced himself tostand upright. The wild look left his eyes, and the flush his cheeks.His face looked suddenly old and haggard. Yet with fairly sure steps hecrossed the room and entered the little kitchen.

Half of the bacon was black; the other half was transparent and liketough jelly. The potatoes were soggy, and had the unmistakable tastethat comes from a dish that has boiled dry. The coffee was lukewarm andmuddy. Even the milk was sour.

David laughed a little ruefully.

"Things aren't so nice as yours, father," he apologized. "I'm afraidI'm nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day! Somehow, some ofthe stove was hotter than the rest, and burnt up the bacon in spots;and all the water got out of the potatoes, too,—though THAT didn'tmatter, for I just put more cold in. I forgot and left the milk in thesun, and it tastes bad now; but I'm sure next time it'll be better—allof it."

The man smiled, but he shook his head sadly.

"But there ought not to be any 'next time,' David."

"Why not? What do you mean? Aren't you ever going to let me try again,father?" There was real distress in the boy's voice.

The man hesitated. His lips parted with an indrawn breath, as if behindthem lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the words stillunsaid. Then, very lightly, came these others:—

"Well, son, this isn't a very nice way to treat your supper, is it?Now, if you please, I'll take some of that bacon. I think I feel myappetite coming back."

If the truant appetite "came back," however, it could not have stayed;for the man ate but little. He frowned, too, as he saw how little theboy ate. He sat silent while his son cleared the food and dishes away,and he was still silent when, with the boy, he passed out of the houseand walked to the little bench facing the west.

Unless it stormed very hard, David never went to bed without this lastlook at his "Silver Lake," as he called the little sheet of water fardown in the valley.

"Daddy, it's gold to-night—all gold with the sun!" he criedrapturously, as his eyes fell upon his treasure. "Oh, daddy!"

It was a long-drawn cry of ecstasy, and hearing it, the man winced, aswith sudden pain.

"Daddy, I'm going to play it—I've got to play it!" cried the boy,bounding toward the cabin. In a moment he had returned, violin at hischin.

The man watched and listened; and as he watched and listened, his facebecame a battle-ground whereon pride and fear, hope and despair, joyand sorrow, fought for the mastery.

It was no new thing for David to "play" the sunset. Always, when he wasmoved, David turned to his violin. Always in its quivering strings hefound the means to say that which his tongue could not express.

Across the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become allpurples now. Above, the sky in one vast flame of crimson and gold, wasa molten sea on which floated rose-pink cloud-boats. Below, the valleywith its lake and river picked out in rose and gold against the shadowygreens of field and forest, seemed like some enchanted fairyland ofloveliness.

And all this was in David's violin, and all this, too, was on David'suplifted, rapturous face.

As the last rose-glow turned to gray and the last strain quivered intosilence, the man spoke. His voice was almost harsh with self-control.

"David, the time has come. We'll have to give it up—you and I."

The boy turned wonderingly, his face still softly luminous.

"Give what up?"

"This—all this."

"This! Why, father, what do you mean? This is home!"

The man nodded wearily.

"I know. It has been home; but, David, you didn't think we could alwayslive here, like this, did you?"

David laughed softly, and turned his eyes once more to the distantsky-line.

"Why not?" he asked dreamily. "What better place could there be? I likeit, daddy."

The man drew a troubled breath, and stirred restlessly. The teasingpain in his side was very bad to-night, and no change of position easedit. He was ill, very ill; and he knew it. Yet he also knew that, toDavid, sickness, pain, and death meant nothing—or, at most, words thathad always been lightly, almost unconsciously passed over. For thefirst time he wondered if, after all, his training—some of it—hadbeen wise.

For six years he had had the boy under his exclusive care and guidance.For six years the boy had eaten the food, worn the clothing, andstudied the books of his father's choosing. For six years that fatherhad thought, planned, breathed, moved, lived for his son. There hadbeen no others in the little cabin. There had been only the occasionaltrips through the woods to the little town on the mountain-side forfood and clothing, to break the days of close companionship.

All this the man had planned carefully. He had meant that only the goodand beautiful should have place in David's youth. It was not that heintended that evil, unhappiness, and death should lack definition, onlydefiniteness, in the boy's mind. It should be a case where the good andthe beautiful should so fill the thoughts that there would be no roomfor anything else. This had been his plan. And thus far he hadsucceeded—succeeded so wonderfully that he began now, in the face ofhis own illness, and of what he feared would come of it, to doubt thewisdom of that planning.

As he looked at the boy's rapt face, he remembered David's surprisedquestioning at the first dead squirrel he had found in the woods. Davidwas six then.

"Why, daddy, he's asleep, and he won't wake up!" he had cried. Then,after a gentle touch: "And he's cold—oh, so cold!"

The father had hurried his son away at the time, and had evaded hisquestions; and David had seemed content. But the next day the boy hadgone back to the subject. His eyes were wide then, and a littlefrightened.

"Father, what is it to be—dead?"

"What do you mean, David?"

"The boy who brings the milk—he had the squirrel this morning. He saidit was not asleep. It was—dead."

"It means that the squirrel, the real squirrel under the fur, has goneaway, David."

"Where?"

"To a far country, perhaps."

"Will he come back?"

"No."

"Did he want to go?"

"We'll hope so."

"But he left his—his fur coat behind him. Didn't he need—that?"

"No, or he'd have taken it with him."

David had fallen silent at this. He had remained strangely silentindeed for some days; then, out in the woods with his father onemorning, he gave a joyous shout. He was standing by the ice-coveredbrook, and looking at a little black hole through which the hurryingwater could be plainly seen.

"Daddy, oh, daddy, I know now how it is, about being—dead."

"Why—David!"

"It's like the water in the brook, you know; THAT'S going to a farcountry, and it isn't coming back. And it leaves its little coldice-coat behind it just as the squirrel did, too. It does n't need it.It can go without it. Don't you see? And it's singing—listen!—it'ssinging as it goes. It WANTS to go!"

"Yes, David." And David's father had sighed with relief that his sonhad found his own explanation of the mystery, and one that satisfied.

Later, in his books, David found death again. It was a man, this time.The boy had looked up with startled eyes.

"Do people, real people, like you and me, be dead, father? Do they goto a far country?

"Yes, son in time—to a far country ruled over by a great and good Kingthey tell us."

David's father had trembled as he said it, and had waited fearfully forthe result. But David had only smiled happily as he answered:

"But they go singing, father, like the little brook. You know I heardit!"

And there the matter had ended. David was ten now, and not yet for himdid death spell terror. Because of this David's father was relieved;and yet—still because of this—he was afraid.

"David," he said gently. "Listen to me."

The boy turned with a long sigh.

"Yes, father."

"We must go away. Out in the great world there are men and women andchildren waiting for you. You've a beautiful work to do; and one can'tdo one's work on a mountain-top."

"Why not? I like it here, and I've always been here."

"Not always, David; six years. You were four when I brought you here.You don't remember, perhaps."

David shook his head. His eyes were again dreamily fixed on the sky.

"I think I'd like it—to go—if I could sail away on that littlecloud-boat up there," he murmured.

The man sighed and shook his head.

"We can't go on cloud-boats. We must walk, David, for a way—and wemust go soon—soon," he added feverishly. "I must get you back—backamong friends, before—"

He rose unsteadily, and tried to walk erect. His limbs shook, and theblood throbbed at his temples. He was appalled at his weakness. With afierceness born of his terror he turned sharply to the boy at his side.

"David, we've got to go! We've got to go—TO-MORROW!"

"Father!"

"Yes, yes, come!" He stumbled blindly, yet in some way he reached thecabin door.

Behind him David still sat, inert, staring. The next minute the boy hadsprung to his feet and was hurrying after his father.

CHAPTER II

THE TRAIL

A curious strength seemed to have come to the man. With almost steadyhands he took down the photographs and the Sistine Madonna, packingthem neatly away in a box to be left. From beneath his bunk he draggeda large, dusty traveling-bag, and in this he stowed a little food, afew garments, and a great deal of the music scattered about the room.

David, in the doorway, stared in dazed wonder. Gradually into his eyescrept a look never seen there before.

"Father, where are we going?" he asked at last in a shaking voice, ashe came slowly into the room.

"Back, son; we're going back."

"To the village, where we get our eggs and bacon?"

"No, no, lad, not there. The other way. We go down into the valley thistime."

"The valley—MY valley, with the Silver Lake?"

"Yes, my son; and beyond—far beyond." The man spoke dreamily. He waslooking at a photograph in his hand. It had slipped in among the loosesheets of music, and had not been put away with the others. It was thelikeness of a beautiful woman.

For a moment David eyed him uncertainly; then he spoke.

"Daddy, who is that? Who are all these people in the pictures? You'venever told me about any of them except the little round one that youwear in your pocket. Who are they?"

Instead of answering, the man turned faraway eyes on the boy and smiledwistfully.

"Ah, David, lad, how they'll love you! How they will love you! But youmustn't let them spoil you, son. You must remember—remember all I'vetold you."

Once again David asked his question, but this time the man only turnedback to the photograph, muttering something the boy could notunderstand.

After that David did not question any more. He was too amazed, toodistressed. He had never before seen his father like this. With nervoushaste the man was setting the little room to rights, crowding thingsinto the bag, and packing other things away in an old trunk. His cheekswere very red, and his eyes very bright. He talked, too, almostconstantly, though David could understand scarcely a word of what wassaid. Later, the man caught up his violin and played; and never beforehad David heard his father play like that. The boy's eyes filled, andhis heart ached with a pain that choked and numbed—though why, Davidcould not have told. Still later, the man dropped his violin and sankexhausted into a chair; and then David, worn and frightened with itall, crept to his bunk and fell asleep.

In the gray dawn of the morning David awoke to a different world. Hisfather, white-faced and gentle, was calling him to get ready forbreakfast. The little room, dismantled of its decorations, was bare andcold. The bag, closed and strapped, rested on the floor by the door,together with the two violins in their cases, ready to carry.

"We must hurry, son. It's a long tramp before we take the cars."

"The cars—the real cars? Do we go in those?" David was fully awake now.

"Yes."

"And is that all we're to carry?"

"Yes. Hurry, son."

"But we come back—sometime?"

There was no answer.

"Father, we're coming back—sometime?" David's voice was insistent now.

The man stooped and tightened a strap that was already quite tightenough. Then he laughed lightly.

"Why, of course you're coming back sometime, David. Only think of allthese things we're leaving!"

When the last dish was put away, the last garment adjusted, and thelast look given to the little room, the travelers picked up the bag andthe violins, and went out into the sweet freshness of the morning. Ashe fastened the door the man sighed profoundly; but David did notnotice this. His face was turned toward the east—always David lookedtoward the sun.

"Daddy, let's not go, after all! Let's stay here," he cried ardently,drinking in the beauty of the morning.

"We must go, David. Come, son." And the man led the way across thegreen slope to the west.

It was a scarcely perceptible trail, but the man found it, and followedit with evident confidence. There was only the pause now and then tosteady his none-too-sure step, or to ease the burden of the bag. Verysoon the forest lay all about them, with the birds singing over theirheads, and with numberless tiny feet scurrying through the underbrushon all sides. Just out of sight a brook babbled noisily of its delightin being alive; and away up in the treetops the morning sun playedhide-and-seek among the dancing leaves.

And David leaped, and laughed, and loved it all, nor was any of itstrange to him. The birds, the trees, the sun, the brook, the scurryinglittle creatures of the forest, all were friends of his. But theman—the man did not leap or laugh, though he, too, loved it all. Theman was afraid.

He knew now that he had undertaken more than he could carry out. Stepby step the bag had grown heavier, and hour by hour the insistent,teasing pain in his side had increased until now it was a torture. Hehad forgotten that the way to the valley was so long; he had notrealized how nearly spent was his strength before he even started downthe trail. Throbbing through his brain was the question, what if, afterall, he could not—but even to himself he would not say the words.

At noon they paused for luncheon, and at night they camped where thechattering brook had stopped to rest in a still, black pool. The nextmorning the man and the boy picked up the trail again, but without thebag. Under some leaves in a little hollow, the man had hidden the bag,and had then said, as if casually:—

"I believe, after all, I won't carry this along. There's nothing in itthat we really need, you know, now that I've taken out the luncheonbox, and by night we'll be down in the valley."

"Of course!" laughed David. "We don't need that." And he laughed again,for pure joy. Little use had David for bags or baggage!

They were more than halfway down the mountain now, and soon theyreached a grass-grown road, little traveled, but yet a road. Stilllater they came to where four ways crossed, and two of them bore themarks of many wheels. By sundown the little brook at their sidemurmured softly of quiet fields and meadows, and David knew that thevalley was reached.

David was not laughing now. He was watching his father with startledeyes. David had not known what anxiety was. He was finding outnow—though he but vaguely realized that something was not right. Forsome time his father had said but little, and that little had been in avoice that was thick and unnatural-sounding. He was walking fast, yetDavid noticed that every step seemed an effort, and that every breathcame in short gasps. His eyes were very bright, and were fixedly benton the road ahead, as if even the haste he was making was not hasteenough. Twice David spoke to him, but he did not answer; and the boycould only trudge along on his weary little feet and sigh for the dearhome on the mountain-top which they had left behind them the morningbefore.

They met few fellow travelers, and those they did meet paid scantattention to the man and the boy carrying the violins. As it chanced,there was no one in sight when the man, walking in the grass at theside of the road, stumbled and fell heavily to the ground.

David sprang quickly forward.

"Father, what is it? WHAT IS IT?"

There was no answer.

"Daddy, why don't you speak to me? See, it's David!"

With a painful effort the man roused himself and sat up. For a momenthe gazed dully into the boy's face; then a half-forgotten somethingseemed to stir him into feverish action. With shaking fingers he handedDavid his watch and a small ivory miniature. Then he searched hispockets until on the ground before him lay a shining pile ofgold-pieces—to David there seemed to be a hundred of them.

"Take them—hide them—keep them. David, until you—need them," pantedthe man. "Then go—go on. I can't."

"Alone? Without you?" demurred the boy, aghast. "Why, father, Icouldn't! I don't know the way. Besides, I'd rather stay with you," headded soothingly, as he slipped the watch and the miniature into hispocket; "then we can both go." And he dropped himself down at hisfather's side.

The man shook his head feebly, and pointed again to the gold-pieces.

"Take them, David,—hide them," he chattered with pale lips.

Almost impatiently the boy began picking up the money and tucking itinto his pockets.

"But, father, I'm not going without you," he declared stoutly, as thelast bit of gold slipped out of sight, and a horse and wagon rattledaround the turn of the road above.

The driver of the horse glanced disapprovingly at the man and the boyby the roadside; but he did not stop. After he had passed, the boyturned again to his father. The man was fumbling once more in hispockets. This time from his coat he produced a pencil and a smallnotebook from which he tore a page, and began to write, laboriously,painfully.

David sighed and looked about him. He was tired and hungry, and he didnot understand things at all. Something very wrong, very terrible, mustbe the matter with his father. Here it was almost dark, yet they had noplace to go, no supper to eat, while far, far up on the mountain-sidewas their own dear home sad and lonely without them. Up there, too, thesun still shone, doubtless,—at least there were the rose-glow and theSilver Lake to look at, while down here there was nothing, nothing butgray shadows, a long dreary road, and a straggling house or two insight. From above, the valley might look to be a fairyland ofloveliness, but in reality it was nothing but a dismal waste of gloom,decided David.

David's father had torn a second page from his book and was beginninganother note, when the boy suddenly jumped to his feet. One of thestraggling houses was near the road where they sat, and its presencehad given David an idea. With swift steps he hurried to the front doorand knocked upon it. In answer a tall, unsmiling woman appeared, andsaid, "Well?"

David removed his cap as his father had taught him to do when one ofthe mountain women spoke to him.

"Good evening, lady; I'm David," he began frankly. "My father is sotired he fell down back there, and we should like very much to staywith you all night, if you don't mind."

The woman in the doorway stared. For a moment she was dumb withamazement. Her eyes swept the plain, rather rough garments of the boy,then sought the half-recumbent figure of the man by the roadside. Herchin came up angrily.

"Oh, would you, indeed! Well, upon my word!" she scouted. "Humph! Wedon't accommodate tramps, little boy." And she shut the door hard.

It was David's turn to stare. Just what a tramp might be, he did notknow; but never before had a request of his been so angrily refused. Heknew that. A fierce something rose within him—a fierce new somethingthat sent the swift red to his neck and brow. He raised a determinedhand to the doorknob—he had something to say to that woman!—when thedoor suddenly opened again from the inside.

"See here, boy," began the woman, looking out at him a little lessunkindly, "if you're hungry I'll give you some milk and bread. Goaround to the back porch and I'll get it for you." And she shut thedoor again.

David's hand dropped to his side. The red still stayed on his face andneck, however, and that fierce new something within him bade him refuseto take food from this woman.... But there was his father—his poorfather, who was so tired; and there was his own stomach clamoring to befed. No, he could not refuse. And with slow steps and hanging headDavid went around the corner of the house to the rear.

As the half-loaf of bread and the pail of milk were placed in hishands, David remembered suddenly that in the village store on themountain, his father paid money for his food. David was glad, now, thathe had those gold-pieces in his pocket, for he could pay money.Instantly his head came up. Once more erect with self-respect, heshifted his burdens to one hand and thrust the other into his pocket. Amoment later he presented on his outstretched palm a shining disk ofgold.

"Will you take this, to pay, please, for the bread and milk?" he askedproudly.

The woman began to shake her head; but, as her eyes fell on the money,she started, and bent closer to examine it. The next instant she jerkedherself upright with an angry exclamation.

"It's gold! A ten-dollar gold-piece! So you're a thief, too, are you,as well as a tramp? Humph! Well, I guess you don't need this then," shefinished sharply, snatching the bread and the pail of milk from theboy's hand.

The next moment David stood alone on the doorstep, with the sound of aquickly thrown bolt in his ears.

A thief! David knew little of thieves, but he knew what they were. Onlya month before a man had tried to steal the violins from the cabin; andhe was a thief, the milk-boy said. David flushed now again, angrily, ashe faced the closed door. But he did not tarry. He turned and ran tohis father.

"Father, come away, quick! You must come away," he choked.

So urgent was the boy's voice that almost unconsciously the sick mangot to his feet. With shaking hands he thrust the notes he had beenwriting into his pocket. The little book, from which he had torn theleaves for this purpose, had already dropped unheeded into the grass athis feet.

"Yes, son, yes, we'll go," muttered the man. "I feel better now. Ican—walk."

And he did walk, though very slowly, ten, a dozen, twenty steps. Frombehind came the sound of wheels that stopped close beside them.

"Hullo, there! Going to the village?" called a voice.

"Yes, sir." David's answer was unhesitating. Where "the village" was,he did not know; he knew only that it must be somewhere away from thewoman who had called him a thief. And that was all he cared to know.

"I'm going 'most there myself. Want a lift?" asked the man, stillkindly.

"Yes, sir. Thank you!" cried the boy joyfully. And together they aidedhis father to climb into the roomy wagon-body.

There were few words said. The man at the reins drove rapidly, and paidlittle attention to anything but his horses. The sick man dozed andrested. The boy sat, wistful-eyed and silent, watching the trees andhouses flit by. The sun had long ago set, but it was not dark, for themoon was round and bright, and the sky was cloudless. Where the roadforked sharply the man drew his horses to a stop.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I guess I'll have to drop you here, friends. Iturn off to the right; but 't ain't more 'n a quarter of a mile foryou, now" he finished cheerily, pointing with his whip to a cluster oftwinkling lights.

"Thank you, sir, thank you," breathed David gratefully, steadying hisfather's steps. "You've helped us lots. Thank you!"

In David's heart was a wild desire to lay at his good man's feet all ofhis shining gold-pieces as payment for this timely aid. But cautionheld him back: it seemed that only in stores did money pay; outside itbranded one as a thief!

Alone with his father, David faced once more his problem. Where shouldthey go for the night? Plainly his father could not walk far. He hadbegun to talk again, too,—low, half-finished sentences that Davidcould not understand, and that vaguely troubled him. There was a housenear by, and several others down the road toward the village; but Davidhad had all the experience he wanted that night with strange houses,and strange women. There was a barn, a big one, which was nearest ofall; and it was toward this barn that David finally turned his father'ssteps.

"We'll go there, daddy, if we can get in," he proposed softly. "Andwe'll stay all night and rest."

CHAPTER III

THE VALLEY

The long twilight of the June day had changed into a night that wasscarcely darker, so bright was the moonlight. Seen from the house, thebarn and the low buildings beyond loomed shadowy and unreal, yet verybeautiful. On the side porch of the house sat Simeon Holly and hiswife, content to rest mind and body only because a full day's work laywell done behind them.

It was just as Simeon rose to his feet to go indoors that a long notefrom a violin reached their ears.

"Simeon!" cried the woman. "What was that?"

The man did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the barn.

"Simeon, it's a fiddle!" exclaimed Mrs. Holly, as a second tonequivered on the air "And it's in our barn!"

Simeon's jaw set. With a stern ejaculation he crossed the porch andentered the kitchen.

In another minute he had returned, a lighted lantern in his hand.

"Simeon, d—don't go," begged the woman, tremulously. "You—you don'tknow what's there."

"Fiddles are not played without hands, Ellen," retorted the manseverely. "Would you have me go to bed and leave a half-drunken,ungodly minstrel fellow in possession of our barn? To-night, on my wayhome, I passed a pretty pair of them lying by the roadside—a man and aboy with two violins. They're the culprits, likely,—though how theygot this far, I don't see. Do you think I want to leave my barn totramps like them?"

"N—no, I suppose not," faltered the woman, as she rose tremblingly toher feet, and followed her husband's shadow across the yard.

Once inside the barn Simeon Holly and his wife paused involuntarily.The music was all about them now, filling the air with runs and trillsand rollicking bits of melody. Giving an angry exclamation, the manturned then to the narrow stairway and climbed to the hayloft above. Athis heels came his wife, and so her eyes, almost as soon as his fellupon the man lying back on the hay with the moonlight full upon hisface. Instantly the music dropped to a whisper, and a low voice cameout of the gloom beyond the square of moonlight which came from thewindow in the roof.

"If you'll please be as still as you can, sir. You see he's asleep andhe's so tired," said the voice.

For a moment the man and the woman on the stairway paused in amazement,then the man lifted his lantern and strode toward the voice.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" he demanded sharply.

A boy's face, round, tanned, and just now a bit anxious, flashed out ofthe dark.

"Oh, please, sir, if you would speak lower," pleaded the boy. "He's sotired! I'm David, sir, and that's father. We came in here to rest andsleep."

Simeon Holly's unrelenting gaze left the boy's face and swept that ofthe man lying back on the hay. The next instant he lowered the lanternand leaned nearer, putting forth a cautious hand. At once hestraightened himself, muttering a brusque word under his breath. Thenhe turned with the angry question:—

"Boy, what do you mean by playing a jig on your fiddle at such a timeas this?"

"Why, father asked me to play" returned the boy cheerily. "He said hecould walk through green forests then, with the ripple of brooks in hisears, and that the birds and the squirrels—"

"See here, boy, who are you?" cut in Simeon Holly sternly. "Where didyou come from?"

"From home, sir."

"Where is that?"

"Why, home, sir, where I live. In the mountains, 'way up, up, up—oh,so far up! And there's such a big, big sky, so much nicer than downhere." The boy's voice quivered, and almost broke, and his eyesconstantly sought the white face on the hay.

It was then that Simeon Holly awoke to the sudden realization that itwas time for action. He turned to his wife.

"Take the boy to the house," he directed incisively. "We'll have tokeep him to-night, I suppose. I'll go for Higgins. Of course the wholething will have to be put in his hands at once. You can't do anythinghere," he added, as he caught her questioning glance. "Leave everythingjust as it is. The man is dead."

"Dead?" It was a sharp cry from the boy, yet there was more of wonderthan of terror in it. "Do you mean that he has gone—like the water inthe brook—to the far country?" he faltered.

Simeon Holly stared. Then he said more distinctly:—

"Your father is dead, boy."

"And he won't come back any more?" David's voice broke now.

There was no answer. Mrs. Holly caught her breath convulsively andlooked away. Even Simeon Holly refused to meet the boy's pleading eyes.

With a quick cry David sprang to his father's side.

"But he's here—right here," he challenged shrilly. "Daddy, daddy,speak to me! It's David!" Reaching out his hand, he gently touched hisfather's face. He drew back then, at once, his eyes distended withterror. "He isn't! He is—gone," he chattered frenziedly. "This isn'tthe father-part that KNOWS. It's the other—that they leave. He's leftit behind him—like the squirrel, and the water in the brook."

Suddenly the boy's face changed. It grew rapt and luminous as he leapedto his feet, crying joyously: "But he asked me to play, so he wentsinging—singing just as he said that they did. And I made him walkthrough green forests with the ripple of the brooks in his ears!Listen—like this!" And once more the boy raised the violin to hischin, and once more the music trilled and rippled about the shocked,amazed ears of Simeon Holly and his wife.

For a time neither the man nor the woman could speak. There was nothingin their humdrum, habit-smoothed tilling of the soil and washing ofpots and pans to prepare them for a scene like this—a moonlit barn, astrange dead man, and that dead man's son babbling of brooks andsquirrels, and playing jigs on a fiddle for a dirge. At last, however,Simeon found his voice.

"Boy, boy, stop that!" he thundered. "Are you mad—clean mad? Go intothe house, I say!" And the boy, dazed but obedient, put up his violin,and followed the woman, who, with tear-blinded eyes, was leading theway down the stairs.

Mrs. Holly was frightened, but she was also strangely moved. From thelong ago the sound of another violin had come to her—a violin, too,played by a boy's hands. But of this, all this, Mrs. Holly did not liketo think.

In the kitchen now she turned and faced her young guest.

"Are you hungry, little boy?"

David hesitated; he had not forgotten the woman, the milk, and thegold-piece.

"Are you hungry—dear?" stammered Mrs. Holly again; and this timeDavid's clamorous stomach forced a "yes" from his unwilling lips; whichsent Mrs. Holly at once into the pantry for bread and milk and aheaped-up plate of doughnuts such as David had never seen before.

Like any hungry boy David ate his supper; and Mrs. Holly, in the faceof this very ordinary sight of hunger being appeased at her table,breathed more freely, and ventured to think that perhaps this strangelittle boy was not so very strange, after all.

"What is your name?" she found courage to ask then.

"David."

"David what?"

"Just David."

"But your father's name?" Mrs. Holly had almost asked, but stopped intime. She did not want to speak of him. "Where do you live?" she askedinstead.

"On the mountain, 'way up, up on the mountain where I can see my SilverLake every day, you know."

"But you didn't live there alone?"

"Oh, no; with father—before he—went away" faltered the boy.

The woman flushed red and bit her lip.

"No, no, I mean—were there no other houses but yours?" she stammered.

"No, ma'am."

"But, wasn't your mother—anywhere?"

"Oh, yes, in father's pocket."

"Your MOTHER—in your father's POCKET!"

So plainly aghast was the questioner that David looked not a littlesurprised as he explained.

"You don't understand. She is an angel-mother, and angel-mothers don'thave anything only their pictures down here with us. And that's what wehave, and father always carried it in his pocket."

"Oh——h," murmured Mrs. Holly, a quick mist in her eyes. Then, gently:"And did you always live there—on the mountain?"

"Six years, father said."

"But what did you do all day? Weren't you ever—lonesome?"

"Lonesome?" The boy's eyes were puzzled.

"Yes. Didn't you miss things—people, other houses, boys of your ownage, and—and such things?"

David's eyes widened.

"Why, how could I?" he cried. "When I had daddy, and my violin, and mySilver Lake, and the whole of the great big woods with everything inthem to talk to, and to talk to me?"

"Woods, and things in them to—to TALK to you!"

"Why, yes. It was the little brook, you know, after the squirrel, thattold me about being dead, and—"

"Yes, yes; but never mind, dear, now," stammered the woman, risinghurriedly to her feet—the boy was a little wild, after all, shethought. "You—you should go to bed. Haven't you a—a bag, or—oranything?"

"No, ma'am; we left it," smiled David apologetically. "You see, we hadso much in it that it got too heavy to carry. So we did n't bring it."

"So much in it you didn't bring it, indeed!" repeated Mrs. Holly, underher breath, throwing up her hands with a gesture of despair. "Boy, whatare you, anyway?"

It was not meant for a question, but, to the woman's surprise, the boyanswered, frankly, simply:—

"Father says that I'm one little instrument in the great Orchestra ofLife, and that I must see to it that I'm always in tune, and don't dragor hit false notes."

"My land!" breathed the woman, dropping back in her chair, her eyesfixed on the boy. Then, with an effort, she got to her feet.

"Come, you must go to bed," she stammered. "I'm sure bed is—is thebest place for you. I think I can find what—what you need," she finishedfeebly.

In a snug little room over the kitchen some minutes later, David foundhimself at last alone. The room, though it had once belonged to a boyof his own age, looked very strange to David. On the floor was arag-carpet rug, the first he had ever seen. On the walls were afishing-rod, a toy shotgun, and a case full of bugs and moths, eachlittle body impaled on a pin, to David's shuddering horror. The bed hadfour tall posts at the corners, and a very puffy top that filled Davidwith wonder as to how he was to reach it, or stay there if he did gainit. Across a chair lay a boy's long yellow-white nightshirt that thekind lady had left, after hurriedly wiping her eyes with the edge ofits hem. In all the circle of the candlelight there was just onefamiliar object to David's homesick eyes—the long black violin casewhich he had brought in himself, and which held his beloved violin.

With his back carefully turned toward the impaled bugs and moths on thewall, David undressed himself and slipped into the yellow-whitenightshirt, which he sniffed at gratefully, so like pine woods was theperfume that hung about its folds. Then he blew out the candle andgroped his way to the one window the little room contained.

The moon still shone, but little could be seen through the thick greenbranches of the tree outside. From the yard below came the sound ofwheels, and of men's excited voices. There came also the twinkle oflanterns borne by hurrying hands, and the tramp of shuffling feet. Inthe window David shivered. There were no wide sweep of mountain, hill,and valley, no Silver Lake, no restful hush, no daddy,—no beautifulThings that Were. There was only the dreary, hollow mockery of theThings they had Become.

Long minutes later, David, with the violin in his arms, lay down uponthe rug, and, for the first time since babyhood, sobbed himself tosleep—but it was a sleep that brought no rest; for in it he dreamedthat he was a big, white-winged moth pinned with a star to an ink-blacksky.

CHAPTER IV

TWO LETTERS

In the early gray dawn David awoke. His first sensation was thephysical numbness and stiffness that came from his hard bed on thefloor.

"Why, daddy," he began, pulling himself half-erect, "I slept all nighton—" He stopped suddenly, brushing his eyes with the backs of hishands. "Why, daddy, where—" Then full consciousness came to him.

With a low cry he sprang to his feet and ran to the window. Through thetrees he could see the sunrise glow of the eastern sky. Down in theyard no one was in sight; but the barn door was open, and, with a quickindrawing of his breath, David turned back into the room and began tothrust himself into his clothing.

The gold in his sagging pockets clinked and jingled musically; and oncehalf a dozen pieces rolled out upon the floor. For a moment the boylooked as if he were going to let them remain where they were. But thenext minute, with an impatient gesture, he had picked them up andthrust them deep into one of his pockets, silencing their jingling withhis handkerchief.

Once dressed, David picked up his violin and stepped softly into thehall. At first no sound reached his ears; then from the kitchen belowcame the clatter of brisk feet and the rattle of tins and crockery.Tightening his clasp on the violin, David slipped quietly down the backstairs and out to the yard. It was only a few seconds then before hewas hurrying through the open doorway of the barn and up the narrowstairway to the loft above.

At the top, however, he came to a sharp pause, with a low cry. The nextmoment he turned to see a kindly-faced man looking up at him from thefoot of the stairs.

"Oh, sir, please—please, where is he? What have you done with him?"appealed the boy, almost plunging headlong down the stairs in his hasteto reach the bottom.

Into the man's weather-beaten face came a look of sincere but awkwardsympathy.

"Oh, hullo, sonny! So you're the boy, are ye?" he began diffidently.

"Yes, yes, I'm David. But where is he—my father, you know? I meanthe—the part he—he left behind him?" choked the boy. "The partlike—the ice-coat?"

The man stared. Then, involuntarily, he began to back away.

"Well, ye see, I—I—"

"But, maybe you don't know," interrupted David feverishly. "You aren'tthe man I saw last night. Who are you? Where is he—the other one,please?"

"No, I—I wa'n't here—that is, not at the first," spoke up the manquickly, still unconsciously backing away. "Me—I'm only Larson, PerryLarson, ye know. 'T was Mr. Holly you see last night—him that I worksfor."

"Then, where is Mr. Holly, please?" faltered the boy, hurrying towardthe barn door. "Maybe he would know—about father. Oh, there he is!"And David ran out of the barn and across the yard to the kitchen porch.

It was an unhappy ten minutes that David spent then. Besides Mr. Holly,there were Mrs. Holly, and the man, Perry Larson. And they all talked.But little of what they said could David understand. To none of hisquestions could he obtain an answer that satisfied.

Neither, on his part, could he seem to reply to their questions in away that pleased them.

They went in to breakfast then, Mr. and Mrs. Holly, and the man, PerryLarson. They asked David to go—at least, Mrs. Holly asked him. ButDavid shook his head and said "No, no, thank you very much; I'd rathernot, if you please—not now." Then he dropped himself down on the stepsto think. As if he could EAT—with that great choking lump in histhroat that refused to be swallowed!

David was thoroughly dazed, frightened, and dismayed. He knew now thatnever again in this world would he see his dear father, or hear himspeak. This much had been made very clear to him during the last tenminutes. Why this should be so, or what his father would want him todo, he could not seem to find out. Not until now had he realized at allwhat this going away of his father was to mean to him. And he toldhimself frantically that he could not have it so. HE COULD NOT HAVE ITSO! But even as he said the words, he knew that it was so—irrevocablyso.

David began then to long for his mountain home. There at least
he would have his dear forest all about him, with the birds and thesquirrels and the friendly little brooks. There he would have hisSilver Lake to look at, too, and all of them would speak to him of hisfather. He believed, indeed, that up there it would almost seem as ifhis father were really with him. And, anyway, if his father ever shouldcome back, it would be there that he would be sure to seek him—upthere in the little mountain home so dear to them both. Back to thecabin he would go now, then. Yes; indeed he would!

With a low word and a passionately intent expression, David got to hisfeet, picked up his violin, and hurried, firm-footed, down the drivewayand out upon the main highway, turning in the direction from whence hehad come with his father the night before.

The Hollys had just finished breakfast when Higgins, the coroner, droveinto the yard accompanied by William Streeter, the town's mostprominent farmer,—and the most miserly one, if report was to becredited.

"Well, could you get anything out of the boy?" demanded Higgins,without ceremony, as Simeon Holly and Larson appeared on the kitchenporch.

"Very little. Really nothing of importance," answered Simeon Holly.

"Where is he now?"

"Why, he was here on the steps a few minutes ago." Simeon Holly lookedabout him a bit impatiently.

"Well, I want to see him. I've got a letter for him."

"A letter!" exclaimed Simeon Holly and Larson in amazed unison.

"Yes. Found it in his father's pocket," nodded the coroner, with allthe tantalizing brevity of a man who knows he has a choice morsel ofinformation that is eagerly awaited. "It's addressed to 'My boy David,'so I calculated we'd better give it to him first without reading it,seeing it's his. After he reads it, though, I want to see it. I want tosee if what it says is any nearer being horse-sense than the other oneis."

"The other one!" exclaimed the amazed chorus again.

"Oh, yes, there's another one," spoke up William Streeter tersely. "AndI've read it—all but the scrawl at the end. There couldn't anybodyread that!" Higgins laughed.

"Well, I'm free to confess 't is a sticker—that name," he admitted."And it's the name we want, of course, to tell us who they are—sinceit seems the boy don't know, from what you said last night. I was inhopes, by this morning, you'd have found out more from him."

Simeon Holly shook his head.

"'T was impossible."

"Gosh! I should say 't was," cut in Perry Larson, with emphasis. "An'queer ain't no name for it. One minute he'd be talkin' good commonsense like anybody: an' the next he'd be chatterin' of coats made o'ice, an' birds an' squirrels an' babbling brooks. He sure is dippy!Listen. He actually don't seem ter know the diff'rence between himselfan' his fiddle. We was tryin' ter find out this mornin' what he coulddo, an' what he wanted ter do, when if he didn't up an' say that hisfather told him it didn't make so much diff'rence WHAT he did so longas he kept hisself in tune an' didn't strike false notes. Now, what doyer think o' that?"

"Yes, I, know" nodded Higgins musingly. "There WAS something queerabout them, and they weren't just ordinary tramps. Did I tell you? Iovertook them last night away up on the Fairbanks road by the Taylorplace, and I gave 'em a lift. I particularly noticed what a decent sortthey were. They were clean and quiet-spoken, and their clothes weregood, even if they were rough. Yet they didn't have any baggage butthem fiddles."

"But what was that second letter you mentioned?" asked Simeon Holly.

Higgins smiled oddly, and reached into his pocket.

"The letter? Oh, you're welcome to read the letter," he said, as hehanded over a bit of folded paper.

Simeon took it gingerly and examined it.

It was a leaf torn apparently from a note book. It was folded threetimes, and bore on the outside the superscription "To whom it mayconcern." The handwriting was peculiar, irregular, and not verylegible. But as near as it could be deciphered, the note ran thus:—

Now that the time has come when I must give David back to the world, Ihave set out for that purpose.

But I am ill—very ill, and should Death have swifter feet than I, Imust leave my task for others to complete. Deal gently with him. Heknows only that which is good and beautiful. He knows nothing of sinnor evil.

Then followed the signature—a thing of scrawls and flourishes thatconveyed no sort of meaning to Simeon Holly's puzzled eyes.

"Well?" prompted Higgins expectantly.

Simeon Holly shook his head.

"I can make little of it. It certainly is a most remarkable note."

"Could you read the name?"

"No."

"Well, I couldn't. Neither could half a dozen others that's seen it.But where's the boy? Mebbe his note'll talk sense."

"I'll go find him," volunteered Larson. "He must be somewheres 'round."

But David was very evidently not "somewheres 'round." At least he wasnot in the barn, the shed, the kitchen bedroom, nor anywhere else thatLarson looked; and the man was just coming back with a crestfallen,perplexed frown, when Mrs. Holly hurried out on to the porch.

"Mr. Higgins," she cried, in obvious excitement, "your wife has justtelephoned that her sister Mollie has just telephoned HER that thatlittle tramp boy with the violin is at her house."

"At Mollie's!" exclaimed Higgins. "Why, that's a mile or more fromhere."

"So that's where he is!" interposed Larson, hurrying forward. "Doggonethe little rascal! He must 'a' slipped away while we was eatin'breakfast."

"Yes. But, Simeon,—Mr. Higgins,—we hadn't ought to let him go likethat," appealed Mrs. Holly tremulously. "Your wife said Mollie said shefound him crying at the crossroads, because he didn't know which way totake. He said he was going back home. He means to that wretched cabinon the mountain, you know; and we can't let him do that alone—a childlike that!"

"Where is he now?" demanded Higgins.

"In Mollie's kitchen eating bread and milk; but she said she had anawful time getting him to eat. And she wants to know what to do withhim. That's why she telephoned your wife. She thought you ought to knowhe was there."

"Yes, of course. Well, tell her to tell him to come back."

"Mollie said she tried to have him come back, but that he said, no,thank you, he'd rather not. He was going home where his father couldfind him if he should ever want him. Mr. Higgins, we—we CAN'T let himgo off like that. Why, the child would die up there alone in thosedreadful woods, even if he could get there in the first place—which Ivery much doubt."

"Yes, of course, of course," muttered Higgins, with a thoughtful frown."There's his letter, too. Say!" he added, brightening, "what'll you betthat letter won't fetch him? He seems to think the world and all of hisdaddy. Here," he directed, turning to Mrs. Holly, "you tell my wife totell—better yet, you telephone Mollie yourself, please, and tell herto tell the boy we've got a letter here for him from his father, and hecan have it if he'll come back.".

"I will, I will," called Mrs. Holly, over her shoulder, as she hurriedinto the house. In an unbelievably short time she was back, her facebeaming.

"He's started, so soon," she nodded. "He's crazy with joy, Mollie said.He even left part of his breakfast, he was in such a hurry. So I guesswe'll see him all right."

"Oh, yes, we'll see him all right," echoed Simeon Holly grimly. "Butthat isn't telling what we'll do with him when we do see him."

"Oh, well, maybe this letter of his will help us out on that,"suggested Higgins soothingly. "Anyhow, even if it doesn't, I'm notworrying any. I guess some one will want him—a good healthy boy likethat."

"Did you find any money on the body?" asked Streeter.

"A little change—a few cents. Nothing to count. If the boy's letterdoesn't tell us where any of their folks are, it'll be up to the townto bury him all right."

"He had a fiddle, didn't he? And the boy had one, too. Wouldn't theybring anything?" Streeter's round blue eyes gleamed shrewdly.

Higgins gave a slow shake of his head.

"Maybe—if there was a market for 'em. But who'd buy 'em? There ain't asoul in town plays but Jack Gurnsey; and he's got one. Besides, he'ssick, and got all he can do to buy bread and butter for him and hissister without taking in more fiddles, I guess. HE wouldn't buy 'em."

"Hm—m; maybe not, maybe not," grunted Streeter. "An', as you say, he'sthe only one that's got any use for 'em here; an' like enough theyain't worth much, anyway. So I guess 't is up to the town all right."

"Yes; but—if yer'll take it from me,"—interrupted Larson,—"you'll bewise if ye keep still before the boy. It's no use ASKIN' him anythin'.We've proved that fast enough. An' if he once turns 'round an' beginster ask YOU questions, yer done for!"

"I guess you're right," nodded Higgins, with a quizzical smile. "And aslong as questioning CAN'T do any good, why, we'll just keep whistbefore the boy. Meanwhile I wish the little rascal would hurry up andget here. I want to see the inside of that letter to HIM. I'm relyingon that being some help to unsnarl this tangle of telling who they are."

"Well, he's started," reiterated Mrs. Holly, as she turned back intothe house; "so I guess he'll get here if you wait long enough."

"Oh, yes, he'll get here if we wait long enough," echoed Simeon Hollyagain, crustily.

The two men in the wagon settled themselves more comfortably in theirseats, and Perry Larson, after a half-uneasy, half-apologetic glance athis employer, dropped himself onto the bottom step. Simeon Holly hadalready sat down stiffly in one of the porch chairs. Simeon Holly never"dropped himself" anywhere. Indeed, according to Perry Larson, if therewere a hard way to do a thing, Simeon Holly found it—and did it. Thefact that, this morning, he had allowed, and was still allowing, thesacred routine of the day's work to be thus interrupted, for nothingmore important than the expected arrival of a strolling urchin, wassomething Larson would not have believed had he not seen it. Even nowhe was conscious once or twice of an involuntary desire to rub his eyesto make sure they were not deceiving him.

Impatient as the waiting men were for the arrival of David, they wereyet almost surprised, so soon did he appear, running up the driveway.

"Oh, where is it, please?" he panted. "They said you had a letter forme from daddy!"

"You're right, sonny; we have. And here it is," answered Higginspromptly, holding out the folded paper.

Plainly eager as he was, David did not open the note till he had firstcarefully set down the case holding his violin; then he devoured itwith eager eyes.

As he read, the four men watched his face. They saw first the quicktears that had to be blinked away. Then they saw the radiant glow thatgrew and deepened until the whole boyish face was aflame with thesplendor of it. They saw the shining wonder of his eyes, too, as helooked up from the letter.

"And daddy wrote this to me from the far country?" he breathed.

Simeon Holly scowled. Larson choked over a stifled chuckle. WilliamStreeter stared and shrugged his shoulders; but Higgins flushed a dullred.

"No, sonny," he stammered. "We found it on the—er—I mean,it—er—your father left it in his pocket for you," finished the man, alittle explosively.

A swift shadow crossed the boy's face.

"Oh, I hoped I'd heard—" he began. Then suddenly he stopped, his faceonce more alight. "But it's 'most the same as if he wrote it fromthere, isn't it? He left it for me, and he told me what to do."

"What's that, what's that?" cried Higgins, instantly alert. "DID hetell you what to do? Then, let's have it, so WE'LL know. You will letus read it, won't you, boy?"

"Why, y—yes," stammered David, holding it out politely, but withevident reluctance.

"Thank you," nodded Higgins, as he reached for the note.

David's letter was very different from the other one. It was longer,but it did not help much, though it was easily read. In his letter, inspite of the wavering lines, each word was formed with a care that toldof a father's thought for the young eyes that would read it. It waswritten on two of the notebook's leaves, and at the end came the singleword "Daddy."

David, my boy [read Higgins aloud], in the far country I am waiting foryou. Do not grieve, for that will grieve me. I shall not return, butsome day you will come to me, your violin at your chin, and the bowdrawn across the strings to greet me. See that it tells me of thebeautiful world you have left—for it is a beautiful world, David;never forget that. And if sometime you are tempted to think it is not abeautiful world, just remember that you yourself can make it beautifulif you will.

You are among new faces, surrounded by things and people that arestrange to you. Some of them you will not understand; some of them youmay not like. But do not fear, David, and do not plead to go back tothe hills. Remember this, my boy,—in your violin lie all the thingsyou long for. You have only to play, and the broad skies of yourmountain home will be over you, and the dear friends and comrades ofyour mountain forests will be about you.

DADDY.

"Gorry! that's worse than the other," groaned Higgins, when he hadfinished the note. "There's actually nothing in it! Wouldn't youthink—if a man wrote anything at such a time—that he'd 'a' wrotesomething that had some sense to it—something that one could get holdof, and find out who the boy is?"

There was no answering this. The assembled men could only grunt and nodin agreement, which, after all, was no real help.

CHAPTER V

DISCORDS

The dead man found in Farmer Holly's barn created a decided stir in thevillage of Hinsdale. The case was a peculiar one for many reasons.First, because of the boy—Hinsdale supposed it knew boys, but it feltinclined to change its mind after seeing this one. Second, because ofthe circumstances. The boy and his father had entered the town liketramps, yet Higgins, who talked freely of his having given the pair a"lift" on that very evening, did not hesitate to declare that he didnot believe them to be ordinary tramps at all.

As there had been little found in the dead man's pockets, save the twonotes, and as nobody could be found who wanted the violins, thereseemed to be nothing to do but to turn the body over to the town forburial. Nothing was said of this to David; indeed, as little aspossible was said to David about anything after that morning whenHiggins had given him his father's letter. At that time the men hadmade one more effort to "get track of SOMETHING," as Higgins haddespairingly put it. But the boy's answers to their questions wereanything but satisfying, anything but helpful, and were often mostdisconcerting. The boy was, in fact, regarded by most of the men, afterthat morning, as being "a little off"; and was hence let severely alone.

Who the man was the town authorities certainly did not know, neithercould they apparently find out. His name, as written by himself, wasunreadable. His notes told nothing; his son could tell little more—ofconsequence. A report, to be sure, did come from the village, far upthe mountain, that such a man and boy had lived in a hut that wasalmost inaccessible; but even this did not help solve the mystery.

David was left at the Holly farmhouse, though Simeon Holly mentallydeclared that he should lose no time in looking about for some one totake the boy away.

On that first day Higgins, picking up the reins preparatory to drivingfrom the yard, had said, with a nod of his head toward David:—

"Well, how about it, Holly? Shall we leave him here till we findsomebody that wants him?"

"Why, y—yes, I suppose so," hesitated Simeon Holly, with uncordialaccent.

But his wife, hovering in the background, hastened forward at once.

"Oh, yes; yes, indeed," she urged. "I'm sure he—he won't be a mite oftrouble, Simeon."

"Perhaps not," conceded Simeon Holly darkly. "Neither, it is safe tosay, will he be anything else—worth anything."

"That's it exactly," spoke up Streeter, from his seat in the wagon. "IfI thought he'd be worth his salt, now, I'd take him myself; but—well,look at him this minute," he finished, with a disdainful shrug.

David, on the lowest step, was very evidently not hearing a word ofwhat was being said. With his sensitive face illumined, he was againporing over his father's letter.

Something in the sudden quiet cut through his absorption as the noisyhum of voices had not been able to do, and he raised his head. His eyeswere starlike.

"I'm so glad father told me what to do," he breathed. "It'll be easiernow."

Receiving no answer from the somewhat awkwardly silent men, he went on,as if in explanation:—

"You know he's waiting for me—in the far country, I mean. He said hewas. And when you've got somebody waiting, you don't mind stayingbehind yourself for a little while. Besides, I've GOT to stay to findout about the beautiful world, you know, so I can tell him, when Igo. That's the way I used to do back home on the mountain, yousee,—tell him about things. Lots of days we'd go to walk; then, whenwe got home, he'd have me tell him, with my violin, what I'd seen. Andnow he says I'm to stay here."

"Here!" It was the quick, stern voice of Simeon Holly.

"Yes," nodded David earnestly; "to learn about the beautiful world.Don't you remember? And he said I was not to want to go back to mymountains; that I would not need to, anyway, because the mountains, andthe sky, and the birds and squirrels and brooks are really in myviolin, you know. And—" But with an angry frown Simeon Holly stalkedaway, motioning Larson to follow him; and with a merry glance and a lowchuckle Higgins turned his horse about and drove from the yard. Amoment later David found himself alone with Mrs. Holly, who was lookingat him with wistful, though slightly fearful eyes.

"Did you have all the breakfast you wanted?" she asked timidly,resorting, as she had resorted the night before, to the everyday thingsof her world in the hope that they might make this strange little boyseem less wild, and more nearly human.

"Oh, yes, thank you." David's eyes had strayed back to the note in hishand. Suddenly he looked up, a new something in his eyes. "What is itto be a—a tramp?" he asked. "Those men said daddy and I were tramps."

"A tramp? Oh—er—why, just a—a tramp," stammered Mrs. Holly. "Butnever mind that, David. I—I wouldn't think any more about it."

"But what is a tramp?" persisted David, a smouldering fire beginning toshow in his eyes. "Because if they meant THIEVES—"

"No, no, David," interrupted Mrs. Holly soothingly. "They never meantthieves at all."

"Then, what is it to be a tramp?"

"Why, it's just to—to tramp," explained Mrs. Holly desperately;—"walkalong the road from one town to another, and—and not live in a houseat all."

"Oh!" David's face cleared. "That's all right, then. I'd love to be atramp, and so'd father. And we were tramps, sometimes, too, 'cause lotsof times, in the summer, we didn't stay in the cabin hardly any—justlived out of doors all day and all night. Why, I never knew really whatthe pine trees were saying till I heard them at night, lying underthem. You know what I mean. You've heard them, haven't you?"

"At night? Pine trees?" stammered Mrs. Holly helplessly.

"Yes. Oh, haven't you ever heard them at night?" cried the boy, in hisvoice a very genuine sympathy as for a grievous loss. "Why, then, ifyou've only heard them daytimes, you don't know a bit what pine treesreally are. But I can tell you. Listen! This is what they say,"finished the boy, whipping his violin from its case, and, after a swifttesting of the strings, plunging into a weird, haunting little melody.

In the doorway, Mrs. Holly, bewildered, yet bewitched, stoodmotionless, her eyes half-fearfully, half-longingly fixed on David'sglorified face. She was still in the same position when Simeon Hollycame around the corner of the house.

"Well, Ellen," he began, with quiet scorn, after a moment's sternwatching of the scene before him, "have you nothing better to do thismorning than to listen to this minstrel fellow?"

"Oh, Simeon! Why, yes, of course. I—I forgot—what I was doing,"faltered Mrs. Holly, flushing guiltily from neck to brow as she turnedand hurried into the house.

David, on the porch steps, seemed to have heard nothing. He was stillplaying, his rapt gaze on the distant sky-line, when Simeon Hollyturned upon him with disapproving eyes.

"See here, boy, can't you do anything but fiddle?" he demanded. Then,as David still continued to play, he added sharply: "Did n't you hearme, boy?"

The music stopped abruptly. David looked up with the slightly dazed airof one who has been summoned as from another world.

"Did you speak to me, sir?" he asked.

"I did—twice. I asked if you never did anything but play that fiddle."

"You mean at home?" David's face expressed mild wonder without a traceof anger or resentment. "Why, yes, of course. I couldn't play ALL thetime, you know. I had to eat and sleep and study my books; and everyday we went to walk—like tramps, as you call them," he elucidated, hisface brightening with obvious delight at being able, for once, toexplain matters in terms that he felt sure would be understood.

"Tramps, indeed!" muttered Simeon Holly, under his breath. Then,sharply: "Did you never perform any useful labor, boy? Were your daysalways spent in this ungodly idleness?"

Again David frowned in mild wonder.

"Oh, I wasn't idle, sir. Father said I must never be that. He saidevery instrument was needed in the great Orchestra of Life; and that Iwas one, you know, even if I was only a little boy. And he said if Ikept still and didn't do my part, the harmony wouldn't be complete,and—"

"Yes, yes, but never mind that now, boy," interrupted Simeon Holly,with harsh impatience. "I mean, did he never set you to work—realwork?"

"Work?" David meditated again. Then suddenly his face cleared. "Oh,yes, sir, he said I had a beautiful work to do, and that it was waitingfor me out in the world. That's why we came down from the mountain, youknow, to find it. Is that what you mean?"

"Well, no," retorted the man, "I can't say that it was. I was referringto work—real work about the house. Did you never do any of that?"

David gave a relieved laugh.

"Oh, you mean getting the meals and tidying up the house," he replied."Oh, yes, I did that with father, only"—his face grew wistful—"I'mafraid I didn't do it very well. My bacon was never as nice and crispas father's, and the fire was always spoiling my potatoes."

"Humph! bacon and potatoes, indeed!" scorned Simeon Holly. "Well, boy,we call that women's work down here. We set men to something else. Doyou see that woodpile by the shed door?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. In the kitchen you'll find an empty woodbox. Do you thinkyou could fill it with wood from that woodpile? You'll find plenty ofshort, small sticks already chopped."

"Oh, yes, sir, I'd like to," nodded David, hastily but carefullytucking his violin into its case. A minute later he had attacked thewoodpile with a will; and Simeon Holly, after a sharply watchfulglance, had turned away.

But the woodbox, after all, was not filled. At least, it was not filledimmediately, for at the very beginning of gathering the second armfulof wood, David picked up a stick that had long lain in one position onthe ground, thereby disclosing sundry and diverse crawling things ofmany legs, which filled David's soul with delight, and drove away everythought of the empty woodbox.

It was only a matter of some strength and more patience, and still moretime, to overturn other and bigger sticks, to find other and bigger ofthe many-legged, many-jointed creatures. One, indeed, was so verywonderful that David, with a whoop of glee, summoned Mrs. Holly fromthe shed doorway to come and see.

So urgent was his plea that Mrs. Holly came with hurried steps—but shewent away with steps even more hurried; and David, sitting back on hiswoodpile seat, was left to wonder why she should scream and shudder andsay "Ugh-h-h!" at such a beautiful, interesting thing as was thislittle creature who lived in her woodpile.

Even then David did not think of that empty woodbox waiting behind thekitchen stove. This time it was a butterfly, a big black butterflybanded with gold; and it danced and fluttered all through the back yardand out into the garden, David delightedly following with soft-treadingsteps, and movements that would not startle. From the garden to theorchard, and from the orchard back to the garden danced thebutterfly—and David; and in the garden, near the house, David cameupon Mrs. Holly's pansy-bed. Even the butterfly was forgotten then, fordown in the path by the pansy-bed David dropped to his knees inveritable worship.

"Why, you're just like little people," he cried softly. "You've gotfaces; and some of you are happy, and some of you are sad. And you—youbig spotted yellow one—you're laughing at me. Oh, I'm going to playyou—all of you. You'll make such a pretty song, you're so differentfrom each other!" And David leaped lightly to his feet and ran aroundto the side porch for his violin.

Five minutes later, Simeon Holly, coming into the kitchen, heard thesound of a violin through the open window. At the same moment his eyesfell on the woodbox, empty save for a few small sticks at the bottom.With an angry frown he strode through the outer door and around thecorner of the house to the garden. At once then he came upon David,sitting Turk-fashion in the middle of the path before the pansy-bed,his violin at his chin, and his whole face aglow.

"Well, boy, is this the way you fill the woodbox?" demanded the mancrisply.

David shook his head.

"Oh, no, sir, this isn't filling the woodbox," he laughed, softeninghis music, but not stopping it. "Did you think that was what I wasplaying? It's the flowers here that I'm playing—the little faces, likepeople, you know. See, this is that big yellow one over there that'slaughing," he finished, letting the music under his fingers burst intoa gay little melody.

Simeon Holly raised an imperious hand; and at the gesture David stoppedhis melody in the middle of a run, his eyes flying wide open in plainwonderment.

"You mean—I'm not playing—right?" he asked.

"I'm not talking of your playing," retorted Simeon Holly severely. "I'mtalking of that woodbox I asked you to fill."

David's face cleared.

"Oh, yes, sir. I'll go and do it," he nodded, getting cheerfully to hisfeet.

"But I told you to do it before."

David's eyes grew puzzled again.

"I know, sir, and I started to," he answered, with the obvious patienceof one who finds himself obliged to explain what should be aself-evident fact; "but I saw so many beautiful things, one afteranother, and when I found these funny little flower-people I just hadto play them. Don't you see?"

"No, I can't say that I do, when I'd already told you to fill thewoodbox," rejoined the man, with uncompromising coldness.

"You mean—even then that I ought to have filled the woodbox first?"

"I certainly do."

David's eyes flew wide open again.

"But my song—I'd have lost it!" he exclaimed. "And father said alwayswhen a song came to me to play it at once. Songs are like the mists ofthe morning and the rainbows, you know, and they don't stay with youlong. You just have to catch them quick, before they go. Now, don't yousee?"

But Simeon Holly, with a despairingly scornful gesture, had turnedaway; and David, after a moment's following him with wistful eyes,soberly walked toward the kitchen door. Two minutes later he wasindustriously working at his task of filling the woodbox.

That for David the affair was not satisfactorily settled was evidencedby his thoughtful countenance and preoccupied air, however; nor werematters helped any by the question David put to Mr. Holly just beforedinner.

"Do you mean," he asked, "that because I didn't fill the woodbox rightaway, I was being a discord?"

"You were what?" demanded the amazed Simeon Holly.

"Being a discord—playing out of tune, you know," explained David, withpatient earnestness. "Father said—" But again Simeon Holly had turnedirritably away; and David was left with his perplexed questions stillunanswered.

CHAPTER VI

NUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE

For some time after dinner, that first day, David watched Mrs. Holly insilence while she cleared the table and began to wash the dishes.

"Do you want me to—help?" he asked at last, a little wistfully.

Mrs. Holly, with a dubious glance at the boy's brown little hands,shook her head.

"No, I don't. No, thank you," she amended her answer.

For another sixty seconds David was silent; then, still more wistfully,he asked:—

"Are all these things you've been doing all day 'useful labor'?"

Mrs. Holly lifted dripping hands from the dishpan and held themsuspended for an amazed instant.

"Are they—Why, of course they are! What a silly question! What putthat idea into your head, child?"

"Mr. Holly; and you see it's so different from what father used to callthem."

"Different?"

"Yes. He said they were a necessary nuisance,—dishes, and gettingmeals, and clearing up,—and he didn't do half as many of them as youdo, either."

"Nuisance, indeed!" Mrs. Holly resumed her dishwashing with someasperity. "Well, I should think that might have been just about likehim."

"Yes, it was. He was always that way," nodded David pleasantly. Then,after a moment, he queried: "But aren't you going to walk at allto-day?"

"To walk? Where?"

"Why, through the woods and fields—anywhere."

"Walking in the woods, NOW—JUST WALKING? Land's sake, boy, I've gotsomething else to do!"

"Oh, that's too bad, isn't it?" David's face expressed sympatheticregret. "And it's such a nice day! Maybe it'll rain by tomorrow."

"Maybe it will," retorted Mrs. Holly, with slightly uplifted eyebrowsand an expressive glance. "But whether it does or does n't won't makeany difference in my going to walk, I guess."

"Oh, won't it?" beamed David, his face changing. "I'm so glad! I don'tmind the rain, either. Father and I used to go in the rain lots oftimes, only, of course, we couldn't take our violins then, so we usedto like the pleasant days better. But there are some things you find onrainy days that you couldn't find any other time, aren't there? Thedance of the drops on the leaves, and the rush of the rain when thewind gets behind it. Don't you love to feel it, out in the open spaces,where the wind just gets a good chance to push?"

Mrs. Holly stared. Then she shivered and threw up her hands with agesture of hopeless abandonment.

"Land's sake, boy!" she ejaculated feebly, as she turned back to herwork.

From dishes to sweeping, and from sweeping to dusting, hurried Mrs.Holly, going at last into the somber parlor, always carefully guardedfrom sun and air. Watching her, mutely, David trailed behind, his eyesstaring a little as they fell upon the multitude of objects that parlorcontained: the haircloth chairs, the long sofa, the marble-toppedtable, the curtains, cushions, spreads, and "throws," the innumerablemats and tidies, the hair-wreath, the wax flowers under their glassdome, the dried grasses, the marvelous bouquets of scarlet, green, andpurple everlastings, the stones and shells and many-sized, many-shapedvases arranged as if in line of battle along the corner shelves.

"Y—yes, you may come in," called Mrs. Holly, glancing back at thehesitating boy in the doorway. "But you mustn't touch anything. I'mgoing to dust."

"But I haven't seen this room before," ruminated David.

"Well, no," deigned Mrs. Holly, with just a touch of superiority. "Wedon't use this room common, little boy, nor the bedroom there, either.This is the company room, for ministers and funerals, and—" Shestopped hastily, with a quick look at David; but the boy did not seemto have heard.

"And doesn't anybody live here in this house, but just you and Mr.Holly, and Mr. Perry Larson?" he asked, still looking wonderingly abouthim.

"No, not—now." Mrs. Holly drew in her breath with a little catch, andglanced at the framed portrait of a little boy on the wall.

"But you've got such a lot of rooms and—and things," remarked David."Why, daddy and I only had two rooms, and not hardly any THINGS. It wasso—different, you know, in my home."

"I should say it might have been!" Mrs. Holly began to dust hurriedly,but carefully. Her voice still carried its hint of superiority.

"Oh, yes," smiled David. "But you say you don't use this room much, sothat helps."

"Helps!" In her stupefaction Mrs. Holly stopped her work and stared.

"Why, yes. I mean, you've got so many other rooms you can live inthose. You don't HAVE to live in here."

"'Have to live in here'!" ejaculated the woman, still toouncomprehending to be anything but amazed.

"Yes. But do you have to KEEP all these things, and clean them andclean them, like this, every day? Couldn't you give them to somebody,or throw them away?"

"Throw—these—things—away!" With a wild sweep of her arms, thehorrified woman seemed to be trying to encompass in a protectiveembrace each last endangered treasure of mat and tidy. "Boy, are youcrazy? These things are—are valuable. They cost money, and timeand—and labor. Don't you know beautiful things when you see them?"

"Oh, yes, I love BEAUTIFUL things," smiled David, with unconsciouslyrude emphasis. "And up on the mountain I had them always. There was thesunrise, and the sunset, and the moon and the stars, and my SilverLake, and the cloud-boats that sailed—"

But Mrs. Holly, with a vexed gesture, stopped him.

"Never mind, little boy. I might have known—brought up as you havebeen. Of course you could not appreciate such things as these. Throwthem away, indeed!" And she fell to work again; but this time herfingers carried a something in their touch that was almost like thecaress a mother might bestow upon an aggrieved child.

David, vaguely disturbed and uncomfortable, watched her with troubledeyes; then, apologetically, he explained:—

"It was only that I thought if you didn't have to clean so many ofthese things, you could maybe go to walk more—to-day, and other days,you know. You said—you didn't have time," he reminded her.

But Mrs. Holly only shook her head and sighed:—

"Well, well, never mind, little boy. I dare say you meant all right.You couldn't understand, of course."

And David, after another moment's wistful eyeing of the caressingfingers, turned about and wandered out onto the side porch. A minutelater, having seated himself on the porch steps, he had taken from hispocket two small pieces of folded paper. And then, through tear-dimmedeyes, he read once more his father's letter.

"He said I mustn't grieve, for that would grieve him," murmured theboy, after a time, his eyes on the far-away hills. "And he said if I'dplay, my mountains would come to me here, and I'd really be at home upthere. He said in my violin were all those things I'm wanting—so bad!"

With a little choking breath, David tucked the note back into hispocket and reached for his violin.

Some time later, Mrs. Holly, dusting the chairs in the parlor, stoppedher work, tiptoed to the door, and listened breathlessly. When sheturned back, still later, to her work, her eyes were wet.

"I wonder why, when he plays, I always get to thinking of—John," shesighed to herself, as she picked up her dusting-cloth.

After supper that night, Simeon Holly and his wife again sat on thekitchen porch, resting from the labor of the day. Simeon's eyes wereclosed. His wife's were on the dim outlines of the shed, the barn, theroad, or a passing horse and wagon. David, sitting on the steps, waswatching the moon climb higher and higher above the tree-tops. After atime he slipped into the house and came out with his violin.

At the first long-drawn note of sweetness, Simeon Holly opened his eyesand sat up, stern-lipped. But his wife laid a timid hand on his arm.

"Don't say anything, please," she entreated softly. "Let him play, justfor to-night. He's lonesome—poor little fellow." And Simeon Holly,with a frowning shrug of his shoulders, sat back in his chair.

Later, it was Mrs. Holly herself who stopped the music by saying:"Come, David, it's bedtime for little boys. I'll go upstairs with you."And she led the way into the house and lighted the candle for him.

Upstairs, in the little room over the kitchen, David found himself oncemore alone. As before, the little yellow-white nightshirt lay over thechair-back; and as before, Mrs. Holly had brushed away a tear as shehad placed it there. As before, too, the big four-posted bed loomedtall and formidable in the corner. But this time the coverlet and sheetwere turned back invitingly—Mrs. Holly had been much disturbed to findthat David had slept on the floor the night before.

Once more, with his back carefully turned toward the impaled bugs andmoths on the wall, David undressed himself. Then, before blowing outthe candle, he went to the window kneeled down, and looked up at themoon through the trees.

David was sorely puzzled. He was beginning to wonder just what was tobecome of himself.

His father had said that out in the world there was a beautiful workfor him to do; but what was it? How was he to find it? Or how was he todo it if he did find it? And another thing; where was he to live? Couldhe stay where he was? It was not home, to be sure; but there was thelittle room over the kitchen where he might sleep, and there was thekind woman who smiled at him sometimes with the sad, far-away look inher eyes that somehow hurt. He would not like, now, to leave her—withdaddy gone.

There were the gold-pieces, too; and concerning these David was equallypuzzled. What should he do with them? He did not need them—the kindwoman was giving him plenty of food, so that he did not have to go tothe store and buy; and there was nothing else, apparently, that hecould use them for. They were heavy, and disagreeable to carry; yet hedid not like to throw them away, nor to let anybody know that he hadthem: he had been called a thief just for one little piece, and whatwould they say if they knew he had all those others?

David remembered now, suddenly, that his father had said to hidethem—to hide them until he needed them. David was relieved at once.Why had he not thought of it before? He knew just the place, too,—thelittle cupboard behind the chimney there in this very room! And with asatisfied sigh, David got to his feet, gathered all the little yellowdisks from his pockets, and tucked them well out of sight behind thepiles of books on the cupboard shelves. There, too, he hid the watch;but the little miniature of the angel-mother he slipped back into oneof his pockets.

David's second morning at the farmhouse was not unlike the first,except that this time, when Simeon Holly asked him to fill the woodbox,David resolutely ignored every enticing bug and butterfly, and keptrigorously to the task before him until it was done.

He was in the kitchen when, just before dinner, Perry Larson came intothe room with a worried frown on his face.

"Mis' Holly, would ye mind just steppin' to the side door? There's awoman an' a little boy there, an' somethin' ails 'em. She can't talkEnglish, an' I'm blest if I can make head nor tail out of the lingo sheDOES talk. But maybe you can."

"Why, Perry, I don't know—" began Mrs. Holly. But she turned at oncetoward the door.

On the porch steps stood a very pretty, but frightened-looking youngwoman with a boy perhaps ten years old at her side. Upon catching sightof Mrs. Holly she burst into a torrent of unintelligible words,supplemented by numerous and vehement gestures.

Mrs. Holly shrank back, and cast appealing eyes toward her husband whoat that moment had come across the yard from the barn.

"Simeon, can you tell what she wants?"

At sight of the newcomer on the scene, the strange woman began again,with even more volubility.

"No," said Simeon Holly, after a moment's scowling scrutiny of thegesticulating woman. "She's talking French, I think. And shewants—something."

"Gosh! I should say she did," muttered Perry Larson. "An' whatever 'tis, she wants it powerful bad."

"Are you hungry?" questioned Mrs. Holly timidly.

"Can't you speak English at all?" demanded Simeon Holly.

The woman looked from one to the other with the piteous, pleading eyesof the stranger in the strange land who cannot understand or makeothers understand. She had turned away with a despairing shake of herhead, when suddenly she gave a wild cry of joy and wheeled about, herwhole face alight.

The Hollys and Perry Larson saw then that David had come out onto theporch and was speaking to the woman—and his words were just asunintelligible as the woman's had been.

Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson stared. Simeon Holly interrupted David witha sharp:—

"Do you, then, understand this woman, boy?"

"Why, yes! Didn't you? She's lost her way, and—" But the woman hadhurried forward and was pouring her story into David's ears.

At its conclusion David turned to find the look of stupefaction stillon the others' faces.

"Well, what does she want?" asked Simeon Holly crisply.

"She wants to find the way to Francois Lavelle's house. He's herhusband's brother. She came in on the train this morning. Her husbandstopped off a minute somewhere, she says, and got left behind. He couldtalk English, but she can't. She's only been in this country a week.She came from France."

"Gorry! Won't ye listen ter that, now?" cried Perry Larson admiringly."Reads her just like a book, don't he? There's a French family over inWest Hinsdale—two of 'em, I think. What'll ye bet 't ain't one o'them?"

"Very likely," acceded Simeon Holly, his eyes bent disapprovingly onDavid's face. It was plain to be seen that Simeon Holly's attention wasoccupied by David, not the woman.

"An', say, Mr. Holly," resumed Perry Larson, a little excitedly, "youknow I was goin' over ter West Hinsdale in a day or two ter see Harlowabout them steers. Why can't I go this afternoon an' tote her an' thekid along?"

"Very well," nodded Simeon Holly curtly, his eyes still on David's face.

Perry Larson turned to the woman, and by a flourish of his arms and ajumble of broken English attempted to make her understand that he wasto take her where she undoubtedly wished to go. The woman still lookeduncomprehending, however, and David promptly came to the rescue, sayinga few rapid words that quickly brought a flood of delightedunderstanding to the woman's face.

"Can't you ask her if she's hungry?" ventured Mrs. Holly, then.

"She says no, thank you," translated David, with a smile, when he hadreceived his answer. "But the boy says he is, if you please."

"Then, tell them to come into the kitchen," directed Mrs. Holly,hurrying into the house.

"So you're French, are you?" said Simeon Holly to David.

"French? Oh, no, sir," smiled David, proudly. "I'm an American. Fathersaid I was. He said I was born in this country."

"But how comes it you can speak French like that?"

"Why, I learned it." Then, divining that his words were stillunconvincing, he added: "Same as I learned German and other things withfather, out of books, you know. Didn't you learn French when you were alittle boy?"

"Humph!" vouchsafed Simeon Holly, stalking away without answering thequestion.

Immediately after dinner Perry Larson drove away with the woman and thelittle boy. The woman's face was wreathed with smiles, and her lastadoring glance was for David, waving his hand to her from the porchsteps.

In the afternoon David took his violin and went off toward the hillbehind the house for a walk. He had asked Mrs. Holly to accompany him,but she had refused, though she was not sweeping or dusting at thetime. She was doing nothing more important, apparently, than makingholes in a piece of white cloth, and sewing them up again with a needleand thread.

David had then asked Mr. Holly to go; but his refusal was even morestrangely impatient than his wife's had been.

"And why, pray, should I go for a useless walk now—or any time, forthat matter?" he demanded sharply.

David had shrunk back unconsciously, though he had still smiled.

"Oh, but it wouldn't be a useless walk, sir. Father said nothing wasuseless that helped to keep us in tune, you know."

"In tune!"

"I mean, you looked as father used to look sometimes, when he felt outof tune. And he always said there was nothing like a walk to put himback again. I—I was feeling a little out of tune myself to-day, and Ithought, by the way you looked, that you were, too. So I asked you togo to walk."

"Humph! Well, I—That will do, boy. No impertinence, you understand!"And he had turned away in very obvious anger.

David, with a puzzled sorrow in his heart had started alone then, onhis walk.

CHAPTER VII

"YOU'RE WANTED—YOU'RE WANTED!"

It was Saturday night, and the end of David's third day at thefarmhouse. Upstairs, in the hot little room over the kitchen, the boyknelt at the window and tried to find a breath of cool air from thehills. Downstairs on the porch Simeon Holly and his wife discussed theevents of the past few days, and talked of what should be done withDavid.

"But what shall we do with him?" moaned Mrs. Holly at last, breaking along silence that had fallen between them. "What can we do with him?Doesn't anybody want him?"

"No, of course, nobody wants him," retorted her husband relentlessly.

And at the words a small figure in a yellow-white nightshirt stoppedshort. David, violin in hand, had fled from the little hot room, andstood now just inside the kitchen door.

"Who can want a child that has been brought up in that heathenishfashion?" continued Simeon Holly. "According to his own story, even hisfather did nothing but play the fiddle and tramp through the woods dayin and day out, with an occasional trip to the mountain village to getfood and clothing when they had absolutely nothing to eat and wear. Ofcourse nobody wants him!"

David, at the kitchen door, caught his breath chokingly. Then he spedacross the floor to the back hall, and on through the long sheds to thehayloft in the barn—the place where his father seemed always nearest.

David was frightened and heartsick. NOBODY WANTED HIM. He had heard itwith his own ears, so there was no mistake. What now about all thoselong days and nights ahead before he might go, violin in hand, to meethis father in that far-away country? How was he to live those days andnights if nobody wanted him? How was his violin to speak in a voicethat was true and pure and full, and tell of the beautiful world, ashis father had said that it must do? David quite cried aloud at thethought. Then he thought of something else that his father had said:"Remember this, my boy,—in your violin lie all the things you longfor. You have only to play, and the broad skies of your mountain homewill be over you, and the dear friends and comrades of your mountainforests will be all about you." With a quick cry David raised hisviolin and drew the bow across the strings.

Back on the porch at that moment Mrs. Holly was saying:—

"Of course there's the orphan asylum, or maybe the poorhouse—if they'dtake him; but—Simeon," she broke off sharply, "where's that childplaying now?"

Simeon listened with intent ears.

"In the barn, I should say."

"But he'd gone to bed!"

"And he'll go to bed again," asserted Simeon Holly grimly, as he roseto his feet and stalked across the moonlit yard to the barn.

As before, Mrs. Holly followed him, and as before, both involuntarilypaused just inside the barn door to listen. No runs and trills androllicking bits of melody floated down the stairway to-night. The noteswere long-drawn, and plaintively sweet; and they rose and swelled anddied almost into silence while the man and the woman by the door stoodlistening.

They were back in the long ago—Simeon Holly and his wife—back with aboy of their own who had made those same rafters ring with shouts oflaughter, and who, also, had played the violin—though not like this;and the same thought had come to each: "What if, after all, it wereJohn playing all alone in the moonlight!"

It had not been the violin, in the end, that had driven John Holly fromhome. It had been the possibilities in a piece of crayon. All throughchildhood the boy had drawn his beloved "pictures" on every invitingspace that offered,—whether it were the "best-room" wall-paper, or thefly leaf of the big plush album,—and at eighteen he had announced hisdetermination to be an artist. For a year after that Simeon Hollyfought with all the strength of a stubborn will, banished chalk andcrayon from the house, and set the boy to homely tasks that left notime for anything but food and sleep—then John ran away.

That was fifteen years ago, and they had not seen him since; though twounanswered letters in Simeon Holly's desk testified that perhaps this,at least, was not the boy's fault.

It was not of the grown-up John, the willful boy and runaway son,however, that Simeon Holly and his wife were thinking, as they stoodjust inside the barn door; it was of Baby John, the little curly-headedfellow that had played at their knees, frolicked in this very barn, andnestled in their arms when the day was done.

Mrs. Holly spoke first—and it was not as she had spoken on the porch.

"Simeon," she began tremulously, "that dear child must go to bed!" Andshe hurried across the floor and up the stairs, followed by herhusband. "Come, David," she said, as she reached the top; "it's timelittle boys were asleep! Come!"

Her voice was low, and not quite steady. To David her voice sounded asher eyes looked when there was in them the far-away something thathurt. Very slowly he came forward into the moonlight, his gazesearching the woman's face long and earnestly.

"And do you—want me?" he faltered.

The woman drew in her breath with a little sob. Before her stood theslender figure in the yellow-white gown—John's gown. Into her eyeslooked those other eyes, dark and wistful,—like John's eyes. And herarms ached with emptiness.

"Yes, yes, for my very own—and for always!" she cried with suddenpassion, clasping the little form close. "For always!"

And David sighed his content.

Simeon Holly's lips parted, but they closed again with no words said.The man turned then, with a curiously baffled look, and stalked downthe stairs.

On the porch long minutes later, when once more David had gone to bed,Simeon Holly said coldly to his wife:—

"I suppose you realize, Ellen, just what you've pledged yourself to, bythat absurd outburst of yours in the barn to-night—and all becausethat ungodly music and the moonshine had gone to your head!"

"But I want the boy, Simeon. He—he makes me think of—John."

Harsh lines came to the man's mouth, but there was a perceptible shakein his voice as he answered:—

"We're not talking of John, Ellen. We're talking of this irresponsible,hardly sane boy upstairs. He can work, I suppose, if he's taught, andin that way he won't perhaps be a dead loss. Still, he's another mouthto feed, and that counts now. There's the note, you know,—it's due inAugust."

"But you say there's money—almost enough for it—in the bank." Mrs.Holly's voice was anxiously apologetic.

"Yes, I know" vouchsafed the man. "But almost enough is not quiteenough."

"But there's time—more than two months. It isn't due till the last ofAugust, Simeon."

"I know, I know. Meanwhile, there's the boy. What are you going to dowith him?"

"Why, can't you use him—on the farm—a little?"

"Perhaps. I doubt it, though," gloomed the man. "One can't hoe corn norpull weeds with a fiddle-bow—and that's all he seems to know how tohandle."

"But he can learn—and he does play beautifully," murmured the woman;whenever before had Ellen Holly ventured to use words of argument withher husband, and in extenuation, too, of an act of her own!

There was no reply except a muttered "Humph!" under the breath. ThenSimeon Holly rose and stalked into the house.

The next day was Sunday, and Sunday at the farmhouse was a thing ofstern repression and solemn silence. In Simeon Holly's veins ran theblood of the Puritans, and he was more than strict as to what heconsidered right and wrong. When half-trained for the ministry,ill-health had forced him to resort to a less confining life, thoughnever had it taken from him the uncompromising rigor of his views. Itwas a distinct shock to him, therefore, on this Sunday morning to beawakened by a peal of music such as the little house had never knownbefore. All the while that he was thrusting his indignant self into hisclothing, the runs and turns and crashing chords whirled about himuntil it seemed that a whole orchestra must be imprisoned in the littleroom over the kitchen, so skillful was the boy's double stopping.Simeon Holly was white with anger when he finally hurried down the halland threw open David's bedroom door.

"Boy, what do you mean by this?" he demanded.

David laughed gleefully.

"And didn't you know?" he asked. "Why, I thought my music would tellyou. I was so happy, so glad! The birds in the trees woke me upsinging, 'You're wanted—you're wanted;' and the sun came over the hillthere and said, 'You're wanted—you're wanted;' and the littletree-branch tapped on my window pane and said 'You're wanted—you'rewanted!' And I just had to take up my violin and tell you about it!"

"But it's Sunday—the Lord's Day," remonstrated the man sternly.

David stood motionless, his eyes questioning.

"Are you quite a heathen, then?" catechised the man sharply. "Have theynever told you anything about God, boy?"

"Oh, 'God'?—of course," smiled David, in open relief. "God wraps upthe buds in their little brown blankets, and covers the roots with—"

"I am not talking about brown blankets nor roots," interrupted the manseverely. "This is God's day, and as such should be kept holy."

"'Holy'?"

"Yes. You should not fiddle nor laugh nor sing."

"But those are good things, and beautiful things," defended David, hiseyes wide and puzzled.

"In their place, perhaps," conceded the man, stiffly, "but not on God'sday."

"You mean—He wouldn't like them?"

"Yes."

"Oh!"—and David's face cleared. "That's all right, then. Your Godisn't the same one, sir, for mine loves all beautiful things every dayin the year."

There was a moment's silence. For the first time in his life SimeonHolly found himself without words.

"We won't talk of this any more, David," he said at last; "but we'llput it another way—I don't wish you to play your fiddle on Sunday.Now, put it up till to-morrow." And he turned and went down the hall.

Breakfast was a very quiet meal that morning. Meals were never thingsof hilarious joy at the Holly farmhouse, as David had already foundout; but he had not seen one before quite so somber as this. It wasfollowed immediately by a half-hour of Scripture-reading and prayer,with Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson sitting very stiff and solemn in theirchairs, while Mr. Holly read. David tried to sit very stiff and solemnin his chair, also; but the roses at the window were nodding theirheads and beckoning; and the birds in the bushes beyond were sending tohim coaxing little chirps of "Come out, come out!" And how could oneexpect to sit stiff and solemn in the face of all that, particularlywhen one's fingers were tingling to take up the interrupted song of themorning and tell the whole world how beautiful it was to be wanted!

Yet David sat very still,—or as still as he could sit,—and only thetapping of his foot, and the roving of his wistful eyes told that hismind was not with Farmer Holly and the Children of Israel in theirwanderings in the wilderness.

After the devotions came an hour of subdued haste and confusion whilethe family prepared for church. David had never been to church. Heasked Perry Larson what it was like; but Perry only shrugged hisshoulders and said, to nobody, apparently:—

"Sugar! Won't ye hear that, now?"—which to David was certainly noanswer at all.

That one must be spick and span to go to church, David soon foundout—never before had he been so scrubbed and brushed and combed. Therewas, too, brought out for him to wear a little clean white blouse and ared tie, over which Mrs. Holly cried a little as she had over thenightshirt that first evening.

The church was in the village only a quarter of a mile away; and in duetime David, open-eyed and interested, was following Mr. and Mrs. Hollydown its long center aisle. The Hollys were early as usual, and servicehad not begun. Even the organist had not taken his seat beneath thegreat pipes of blue and gold that towered to the ceiling.

It was the pride of the town—that organ. It had been given by a greatman (out in the world) whose birthplace the town was. More than that, ayearly donation from this same great man paid for the skilled organistwho came every Sunday from the city to play it. To-day, as the organisttook his seat, he noticed a new face in the Holly pew, and he almostgave a friendly smile as he met the wondering gaze of the small boythere; then he lost himself, as usual, in the music before him.

Down in the Holly pew the small boy held his breath. A score of violinswere singing in his ears; and a score of other instruments that hecould not name, crashed over his head, and brought him to his feet inecstasy. Before a detaining hand could stop him, he was out in theaisle, his eyes on the blue-and-gold pipes from which seemed to comethose wondrous sounds. Then his gaze fell on the man and on the banksof keys; and with soft steps he crept along the aisle and up the stairsto the organ-loft.

For long minutes he stood motionless, listening; then the music diedinto silence and the minister rose for the invocation. It was a boy'svoice, and not a man's, however, that broke the pause.

"Oh, sir, please," it said, "would you—could you teach ME to do that?"

The organist choked over a cough, and the soprano reached out and drewDavid to her side, whispering something in his ear. The minister, aftera dazed silence, bowed his head; while down in the Holly pew an angryman and a sorely mortified woman vowed that, before David came tochurch again, he should have learned some things.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PUZZLING "DOS" AND "DON'TS"

With the coming of Monday arrived a new life for David—a curious lifefull of "don'ts" and "dos." David wondered sometimes why all thepleasant things were "don'ts" and all the unpleasant ones "dos." Cornto be hoed, weeds to be pulled, woodboxes to be filled; with all theseit was "do this, do this, do this." But when it came to lying under theapple trees, exploring the brook that ran by the field, or evenwatching the bugs and worms that one found in the earth—all these were"don'ts."

As to Farmer Holly—Farmer Holly himself awoke to some new experiencesthat Monday morning. One of them was the difficulty in successfullycombating the cheerfully expressed opinion that weeds were so prettygrowing that it was a pity to pull them up and let them all wither anddie. Another was the equally great difficulty of keeping a small boy atuseful labor of any sort in the face of the attractions displayed by apassing cloud, a blossoming shrub, or a bird singing on a tree-branch.

In spite of all this, however, David so evidently did his best to carryout the "dos" and avoid the "don'ts," that at four o'clock that firstMonday he won from the stern but would-be-just Farmer Holly his freedomfor the rest of the day; and very gayly he set off for a walk. He wentwithout his violin, as there was the smell of rain in the air; but hisface and his step and the very swing of his arms were singing (toDavid) the joyous song of the morning before. Even yet, in spite of thevicissitudes of the day's work, the whole world, to David's homesick,lonely little heart, was still caroling that blessed "You're wanted,you're wanted, you're wanted!"

And then he saw the crow.

David knew crows. In his home on the mountain he had had several ofthem for friends. He had learned to know and answer their calls. He hadlearned to admire their wisdom and to respect their moods and tempers.He loved to watch them. Especially he loved to see the great birds cutthrough the air with a wide sweep of wings, so alive, so gloriouslyfree!

But this crow—

This crow was not cutting through the air with a wide sweep of wing. Itwas in the middle of a cornfield, and it was rising and falling andflopping about in a most extraordinary fashion. Very soon David,running toward it, saw why. By a long leather strip it was fastenedsecurely to a stake in the ground.

"Oh, oh, oh!" exclaimed David, in sympathetic consternation. "Here, youjust wait a minute. I'll fix it."

With confident celerity David whipped out his jackknife to cut thethong; but he found then that to "fix it" and to say he would "fix it"were two different matters.

The crow did not seem to recognize in David a friend. He saw in him,apparently, but another of the stone-throwing, gun-shooting, torturinghumans who were responsible for his present hateful captivity. Withbeak and claw and wing, therefore, he fought this new evil that hadcome presumedly to torment; and not until David had hit upon theexpedient of taking off his blouse, and throwing it over the angrybird, could the boy get near enough to accomplish his purpose. Eventhen David had to leave upon the slender leg a twist of leather.

A moment later, with a whir of wings and a frightened squawk thatquickly turned into a surprised caw of triumphant rejoicing, the crowsoared into the air and made straight for a distant tree-top. David,after a minute's glad surveying of his work, donned his blouse againand resumed his walk.

It was almost six o'clock when David got back to the Holly farmhouse.In the barn doorway sat Perry Larson.

"Well, sonny," the man greeted him cheerily, "did ye get yer weedin'done?"

"Y—yes," hesitated David. "I got it done; but I didn't like it."

"'T is kinder hot work."

"Oh, I didn't mind that part," returned David. "What I didn't like waspulling up all those pretty little plants and letting them die."

"Weeds—'pretty little plants'!" ejaculated the man. "Well, I'll bejiggered!"

"But they WERE pretty," defended David, reading aright the scorn inPerry Larson's voice. "The very prettiest and biggest there were,always. Mr. Holly showed me, you know,—and I had to pull them up."

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" muttered Perry Larson again.

"But I've been to walk since. I feel better now."

"Oh, ye do!"

"Oh, yes. I had a splendid walk. I went 'way up in the woods on thehill there. I was singing all the time—inside, you know. I was so gladMrs. Holly—wanted me. You know what it is, when you sing inside."

Perry Larson scratched his head.

"Well, no, sonny, I can't really say I do," he retorted. "I ain't muchon singin'."

"Oh, but I don't mean aloud. I mean inside. When you're happy, youknow."

"When I'm—oh!" The man stopped and stared, his mouth falling open.Suddenly his face changed, and he grinned appreciatively. "Well, if youain't the beat 'em, boy! 'T is kinder like singin'—the way ye feelinside, when yer 'specially happy, ain't it? But I never thought of itbefore."

"Oh, yes. Why, that's where I get my songs—inside of me, youknow—that I play on my violin. And I made a crow sing, too. Only HEsang outside."

"SING—A CROW!" scoffed the man. "Shucks! It'll take more 'n you termake me think a crow can sing, my lad."

"But they do, when they're happy," maintained the boy. "Anyhow, itdoesn't sound the same as it does when they're cross, or plagued oversomething. You ought to have heard this one to-day. He sang. He was soglad to get away. I let him loose, you see."

"You mean, you CAUGHT a crow up there in them woods?" The man's voicewas skeptical.

"Oh, no, I didn't catch it. But somebody had, and tied him up. And hewas so unhappy!"

"A crow tied up in the woods!"

"Oh, I didn't find THAT in the woods. It was before I went up the hillat all."

"A crow tied up—Look a-here, boy, what are you talkin' about? Wherewas that crow?" Perry Larson's whole self had become suddenly alert.

"In the field 'Way over there. And somebody—"

"The cornfield! Jingo! Boy, you don't mean you touched THAT crow?"

"Well, he wouldn't let me TOUCH him," half-apologized David. "He was soafraid, you see. Why, I had to put my blouse over his head before he'dlet me cut him loose at all."

"Cut him loose!" Perry Larson sprang to his feet. "You did n't—youDIDn't let that crow go!"

David shrank back.

"Why, yes; he WANTED to go. He—" But the man before him had fallenback despairingly to his old position.

"Well, sir, you've done it now. What the boss'll say, I don't know; butI know what I'd like ter say to ye. I was a whole week, off an' on,gettin' hold of that crow, an' I wouldn't have got him at all if Ihadn't hid half the night an' all the mornin' in that clump o' bushes,watchin' a chance ter wing him, jest enough an' not too much. An' eventhen the job wa'n't done. Let me tell yer, 't wa'n't no small thing terget him hitched. I'm wearin' the marks of the rascal's beak yet. An'now you've gone an' let him go—just like that," he finished, snappinghis fingers angrily.

In David's face there was no contrition. There was only increduloushorror.

"You mean, YOU tied him there, on purpose?"

"Sure I did!"

"But he didn't like it. Couldn't you see he didn't like it?" criedDavid.

"Like it! What if he didn't? I didn't like ter have my corn pulled up,either. See here, sonny, you no need ter look at me in that tone o'voice. I didn't hurt the varmint none ter speak of—ye see he couldfly, didn't ye?—an' he wa'n't starvin'. I saw to it that he had enoughter eat an' a dish o' water handy. An' if he didn't flop an' pull an'try ter get away he needn't 'a' hurt hisself never. I ain't ter blamefor what pullin' he done."

"But wouldn't you pull if you had two big wings that could carry you tothe top of that big tree there, and away up, up in the sky, where youcould talk to the stars?—wouldn't you pull if somebody a hundred timesbigger'n you came along and tied your leg to that post there?"

The man, Perry, flushed an angry red.

"See here, sonny, I wa'n't askin' you ter do no preachin'. What I didain't no more'n any man 'round here does—if he's smart enough tercatch one. Rigged-up broomsticks ain't in it with a live bird when itcomes ter drivin' away them pesky, thievin' crows. There ain't a farmer'round here that hain't been green with envy, ever since I caught thecritter. An' now ter have you come along an' with one flip o'yer knifespile it all, I—Well, it jest makes me mad, clean through! That's all."

"You mean, you tied him there to frighten away the other crows?"

"Sure! There ain't nothin' like it."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"Well, you'd better be. But that won't bring back my crow!"

David's face brightened.

"No, that's so, isn't it? I'm glad of that. I was thinking of thecrows, you see. I'm so sorry for them! Only think how we'd hate to betied like that—" But Perry Larson, with a stare and an indignantsnort, had got to his feet, and was rapidly walking toward the house.

Very plainly, that evening, David was in disgrace, and it took all ofMrs. Holly's tact and patience, and some private pleading, to keep ageneral explosion from wrecking all chances of his staying longer atthe farmhouse. Even as it was, David was sorrowfully aware that he wasproving to be a great disappointment so soon, and his violin playingthat evening carried a moaning plaintiveness that would have been verysignificant to one who knew David well.

Very faithfully, the next day, the boy tried to carry out all the"dos," and though he did not always succeed, yet his efforts were soobvious, that even the indignant owner of the liberated crow wassomewhat mollified; and again Simeon Holly released David from work atfour o'clock.

Alas, for David's peace of mind, however; for on his walk to-day,though he found no captive crow to demand his sympathy, he foundsomething else quite as heartrending, and as incomprehensible.

It was on the edge of the woods that he came upon two boys, eachcarrying a rifle, a dead squirrel, and a dead rabbit. The threatenedrain of the day before had not materialized, and David had his violin.He had been playing softly when he came upon the boys where the pathentered the woods.

"Oh!" At sight of the boys and their burden David gave an involuntarycry, and stopped playing.

The boys, scarcely less surprised at sight of David and his violin,paused and stared frankly.

"It's the tramp kid with his fiddle," whispered one to the otherhuskily.

David, his grieved eyes on the motionless little bodies in the boys'hands, shuddered.

"Are they—dead, too?"

The bigger boy nodded self-importantly.

"Sure. We just shot 'em—the squirrels. Ben here trapped the rabbits."He paused, manifestly waiting for the proper awed admiration to comeinto David's face.

But in David's startled eyes there was no awed admiration, there wasonly disbelieving horror.

"You mean, you SENT them to the far country?"

"We—what?"

"Sent them. Made them go yourselves—to the far country?"

The younger boy still stared. The older one grinned disagreeably.

"Sure," he answered with laconic indifference. "We sent 'em to the farcountry, all right."

"But—how did you know they WANTED to go?"

"Wanted—Eh?" exploded the big boy. Then he grinned again, still moredisagreeably. "Well, you see, my dear, we didn't ask 'em," he gibed.

Real distress came into David's face.

"Then you don't know at all. And maybe they DIDn't want to go. And ifthey didn't, how COULD they go singing, as father said? Father wasn'tsent. He WENT. And he went singing. He said he did. But these—Howwould YOU like to have somebody come along and send YOU to the farcountry, without even knowing if you wanted to go?"

There was no answer. The boys, with a growing fear in their eyes, as atsight of something inexplicable and uncanny, were sidling away; and ina moment they were hurrying down the hill, not, however, without abackward glance or two, of something very like terror.

David, left alone, went on his way with troubled eyes and a thoughtfulfrown.

David often wore, during those first few days at the Holly farmhouse, athoughtful face and a troubled frown. There were so many, many thingsthat were different from his mountain home. Over and over, as thosefirst long days passed, he read his letter until he knew it byheart—and he had need to. Was he not already surrounded by things andpeople that were strange to him?

And they were so very strange—these people! There were the boys andmen who rose at dawn—yet never paused to watch the sun flood the worldwith light; who stayed in the fields all day—yet never raised theireyes to the big fleecy clouds overhead; who knew birds only as thievesafter fruit and grain, and squirrels and rabbits only as creatures tobe trapped or shot. The women—they were even more incomprehensible.They spent the long hours behind screened doors and windows, washingthe same dishes and sweeping the same floors day after day. They, too,never raised their eyes to the blue sky outside, nor even to thecrimson roses that peeped in at the window. They seemed rather to belooking always for dirt, yet not pleased when they found it—especiallyif it had been tracked in on the heel of a small boy's shoe!

More extraordinary than all this to David, however, was the fact thatthese people regarded HIM, not themselves, as being strange. As if itwere not the most natural thing in the world to live with one's fatherin one's home on the mountain-top, and spend one's days trailingthrough the forest paths, or lying with a book beside some babblinglittle stream! As if it were not equally natural to take one's violinwith one at times, and learn to catch upon the quivering strings thewhisper of the winds through the trees! Even in winter, when the cloudsthemselves came down from the sky and covered the earth with their softwhiteness,—even then the forest was beautiful; and the song of thebrook under its icy coat carried a charm and mystery that were quitewanting in the chattering freedom of summer. Surely there was nothingstrange in all this, and yet these people seemed to think there was!

CHAPTER IX

JOE

Day by day, however, as time passed, David diligently tried to performthe "dos" and avoid the "don'ts"; and day by day he came to realize howimportant weeds and woodboxes were, if he were to conform to what wasevidently Farmer Holly's idea of "playing in, tune" in this strange newOrchestra of Life in which he found himself.

But, try as he would, there was yet an unreality about it all, apersistent feeling of uselessness and waste, that would not be setaside. So that, after all, the only part of this strange new life ofhis that seemed real to him was the time that came after four o'clockeach day, when he was released from work.

And how full he filled those hours! There was so much to see, so muchto do. For sunny days there were field and stream and pasture land andthe whole wide town to explore. For rainy days, if he did not care togo to walk, there was his room with the books in the chimney cupboard.Some of them David had read before, but many of them he had not. One ortwo were old friends; but not so "Dare Devil Dick," and "The Pirates ofPigeon Cove" (which he found hidden in an obscure corner behind a looseboard). Side by side stood "The Lady of the Lake," "Treasure Island,"and "David Copperfield"; and coverless and dogeared lay "RobinsonCrusoe," "The Arabian Nights," and "Grimm's Fairy Tales." There weremore, many more, and David devoured them all with eager eyes. The goodin them he absorbed as he absorbed the sunshine; the evil he cast asideunconsciously—it rolled off, indeed, like the proverbial water fromthe duck's back.

David hardly knew sometimes which he liked the better, his imaginativeadventures between the covers of his books or his real adventures inhis daily strolls. True, it was not his mountain home—this place inwhich he found himself; neither was there anywhere his Silver Lake withits far, far-reaching sky above. More deplorable yet, nowhere was therethe dear father he loved so well. But the sun still set in rose andgold, and the sky, though small, still carried the snowy sails of itscloud-boats; while as to his father—his father had told him not togrieve, and David was trying very hard to obey.

With his violin for company David started out each day, unless heelected to stay indoors with his books. Sometimes it was toward thevillage that he turned his steps; sometimes it was toward the hillsback of the town. Whichever way it was, there was always sure to besomething waiting at the end for him and his violin to discover, if itwas nothing more than a big white rose in bloom, or a squirrel sittingby the roadside.

Very soon, however, David discovered that there was something to befound in his wanderings besides squirrels and roses; and thatwas—people. In spite of the strangeness of these people, they werewonderfully interesting, David thought. And after that he turned hissteps more and more frequently toward the village when four o'clockreleased him from the day's work.

At first David did not talk much to these people. He shrank sensitivelyfrom their bold stares and unpleasantly audible comments. He watchedthem with round eyes of wonder and interest, however,—when he did notthink they were watching him. And in time he came to know not a littleabout them and about the strange ways in which they passed their time.

There was the greenhouse man. It would be pleasant to spend one's daygrowing plants and flowers—but not under that hot, stifling glassroof, decided David. Besides, he would not want always to pick and sendaway the very prettiest ones to the city every morning, as thegreenhouse man did.

There was the doctor who rode all day long behind the gray mare, makingsick folks well. David liked him, and mentally vowed that he himselfwould be a doctor sometime. Still, there was the stage-driver—Davidwas not sure but he would prefer to follow this man's profession for alife-work; for in his, one could still have the freedom of long days inthe open, and yet not be saddened by the sight of the sick before theyhad been made well—which was where the stage-driver had the better ofthe doctor, in David's opinion. There were the blacksmith and thestorekeepers, too, but to these David gave little thought or attention.

Though he might not know what he did want to do, he knew very well whathe did not. All of which merely goes to prove that David was still onthe lookout for that great work which his father had said was waitingfor him out in the world.

Meanwhile David played his violin. If he found a crimson rambler inbloom in a door-yard, he put it into a little melody of puredelight—that a woman in the house behind the rambler heard the musicand was cheered at her task, David did not know. If he found a kittenat play in the sunshine, he put it into a riotous abandonment oftumbling turns and trills—that a fretful baby heard and stopped itswailing, David also did not know. And once, just because the sky wasblue and the air was sweet, and it was so good to be alive, Davidlifted his bow and put it all into a rapturous paean of ringingexultation—that a sick man in a darkened chamber above the streetlifted his head, drew in his breath, and took suddenly a new lease oflife, David still again did not know. All of which merely goes to provethat David had perhaps found his work and was doing it—although yetstill again David did not know.

It was in the cemetery one afternoon that David came upon the Lady inBlack. She was on her knees putting flowers on a little mound beforeher. She looked up as David approached. For a moment she gazedwistfully at him; then as if impelled by a hidden force, she spoke.

"Little boy, who are you?"

"I'm David."

"David! David who? Do you live here? I've seen you here before."

"Oh, yes, I've been here quite a lot of times." Purposely the boyevaded the questions. David was getting tired of questions—especiallythese questions.

"And have you—lost one dear to you, little boy?"

"Lost some one?"

"I mean—is your father or mother—here?"

"Here? Oh, no, they aren't here. My mother is an angel-mother,
and my father has gone to the far country. He is waiting for me there,you know."

"But, that's the same—that is—" She stopped helplessly, bewilderedeyes on David's serene face. Then suddenly a great light came to herown. "Oh, little boy, I wish I could understand that—just that," shebreathed. "It would make it so much easier—if I could just rememberthat they aren't here—that they're WAITING—over there!"

But David apparently did not hear. He had turned and was playing softlyas he walked away. Silently the Lady in Black knelt, listening, lookingafter him. When she rose some time later and left the cemetery, thelight on her face was still there, deeper, more glorified.

Toward boys and girls—especially boys—of his own age, Davidfrequently turned wistful eyes. David wanted a friend, a friend whowould know and understand; a friend who would see things as he sawthem, who would understand what he was saying when he played. It seemedto David that in some boy of his own age he ought to find such afriend. He had seen many boys—but he had not yet found the friend.David had begun to think, indeed, that of all these strange beings inthis new life of his, boys were the strangest.

They stared and nudged each other unpleasantly when they came upon himplaying. They jeered when he tried to tell them what he had beenplaying. They had never heard of the great Orchestra of Life, and theyfell into most disconcerting fits of laughter, or else backed away asif afraid, when he told them that they themselves were instruments init, and that if they did not keep themselves in tune, there was sure tobe a discord somewhere.

Then there were their games and frolics. Such as were played withballs, bats, and bags of beans, David thought he would like very much.But the boys only scoffed when he asked them to teach him how to play.They laughed when a dog chased a cat, and they thought it very, veryfunny when Tony, the old black man, tripped on the string they drewacross his path. They liked to throw stones and shoot guns, and themore creeping, crawling, or flying creatures that they could send tothe far country, the happier they were, apparently. Nor did they likeit at all when he asked them if they were sure all these creeping,crawling, flying creatures wanted to leave this beautiful world and tobe made dead. They sneered and called him a sissy. David did not knowwhat a sissy was; but from the way they said it, he judged it must beeven worse to be a sissy than to be a thief.

And then he discovered Joe.

David had found himself in a very strange, very unlovely neighborhoodthat afternoon. The street was full of papers and tin cans, the houseswere unspeakably forlorn with sagging blinds and lack of paint. Untidywomen and blear-eyed men leaned over the dilapidated fences, or lolledon mud-tracked doorsteps. David, his shrinking eyes turning from oneside to the other, passed slowly through the street, his violin underhis arm. Nowhere could David find here the tiniest spot of beauty to"play." He had reached quite the most forlorn little shanty on thestreet when the promise in his father's letter occurred to him. With asuddenly illumined face, he raised his violin to position and plungedinto a veritable whirl of trills and runs and tripping melodies.

"If I didn't just entirely forget that I didn't NEED to SEE anythingbeautiful to play," laughed David softly to himself. "Why, it's alreadyright here in my violin!"

David had passed the tumble-down shanty, and was hesitating where twostreets crossed, when he felt a light touch on his arm. He turned toconfront a small girl in a patched and faded calico dress, obviouslyoutgrown. Her eyes were wide and frightened. In the middle of heroutstretched dirty little palm was a copper cent.

"If you please, Joe sent this—to you," she faltered.

"To me? What for?" David stopped playing and lowered his violin.

The little girl backed away perceptibly, though she still held out thecoin.

"He wanted you to stay and play some more. He said to tell you he'd 'a'sent more money if he could. But he didn't have it. He just had thiscent."

David's eyes flew wide open.

"You mean he WANTS me to play? He likes it?" he asked joyfully.

"Yes. He said he knew 't wa'n't much—the cent. But he thought maybeyou'd play a LITTLE for it."

"Play? Of course I'll play" cried David. "Oh, no, I don't want themoney," he added, waving the again-proffered coin aside. "I don't needmoney where I'm living now. Where is he—the one that wanted me toplay?" he finished eagerly.

"In there by the window. It's Joe. He's my brother." The little girl,in spite of her evident satisfaction at the accomplishment of herpurpose, yet kept quite aloof from the boy. Nor did the fact that herefused the money appear to bring her anything but uneasy surprise.

In the window David saw a boy apparently about his own age, a boy withsandy hair, pale cheeks, and wide-open, curiously intent blue eyes.

"Is he coming? Did you get him? Will he play?" called the boy at thewindow eagerly.

"Yes, I'm right here. I'm the one. Can't you see the violin? Shall Iplay here or come in?" answered David, not one whit less eagerly.

The small girl opened her lips as if to explain something; but the boyin the window did not wait.

"Oh, come in. WILL you come in?" he cried unbelievingly. "And will youjust let me touch it—the fiddle? Come! You WILL come? See, there isn'tanybody home, only just Betty and me."

"Of course I will!" David fairly stumbled up the broken steps in hisimpatience to reach the wide-open door. "Did you like it—what Iplayed? And did you know what I was playing? Did you understand? Couldyou see the cloud-boats up in the sky, and my Silver Lake down in thevalley? And could you hear the birds, and the winds in the trees, andthe little brooks? Could you? Oh, did you understand? I've so wanted tofind some one that could! But I wouldn't think that YOU—HERE—" With agesture, and an expression on his face that were unmistakable, Davidcame to a helpless pause.

"There, Joe, what'd I tell you," cried the little girl, in a huskywhisper, darting to her brother's side. "Oh, why did you make me gethim here? Everybody says he's crazy as a loon, and—"

But the boy reached out a quickly silencing hand. His face wascuriously alight, as if from an inward glow. His eyes, still widelyintent, were staring straight ahead.

"Stop, Betty, wait," he hushed her. "Maybe—I think I DO understand.Boy, you mean—INSIDE of you, you see those things, and then you try tomake your fiddle tell what you are seeing. Is that it?"

"Yes, yes," cried David. "Oh, you DO understand. And I never thoughtyou could. I never thought that anybody could that did n't haveanything to look at but him—but these things."

"'Anything but these to look at'!" echoed the boy, with a suddenanguish in his voice. "Anything but these! I guess if I could seeANYTHING, I wouldn't mind WHAT I see! An' you wouldn't, neither, if youwas—blind, like me."

"Blind!" David fell back. Face and voice were full of horror. "You meanyou can't see—anything, with your eyes?"

"Nothin'."

"Oh! I never saw any one blind before. There was one in a book—butfather took it away. Since then, in books down here, I've foundothers—but—"

"Yes, yes. Well, never mind that," cut in the blind boy, growingrestive under the pity in the other's voice. "Play. Won't you?"

"But how are you EVER going to know what a beautiful world it is?"shuddered David. "How can you know? And how can you ever play in tune?You're one of the instruments. Father said everybody was. And he saideverybody was playing SOMETHING all the time; and if you didn't play intune—"

"Joe, Joe, please," begged the little girl "Won't you let him go? I'mafraid. I told you—"

"Shucks, Betty! He won't hurt ye," laughed Joe, a little irritably.Then to David he turned again with some sharpness.

"Play, won't ye? You SAID you'd play!"

"Yes, oh, yes, I'll play," faltered David, bringing his violin hastilyto position, and testing the strings with fingers that shook a little.

"There!" breathed Joe, settling back in his chair with a contentedsigh. "Now, play it again—what you did before."

But David did not play what he did before—at first. There were no airycloud-boats, no far-reaching sky, no birds, or murmuring forest brooksin his music this time. There were only the poverty-stricken room, thedirty street, the boy alone at the window, with his sightless eyes—theboy who never, never would know what a beautiful world he lived in.

Then suddenly to David came a new thought. This boy, Joe, had saidbefore that he understood. He had seemed to know that he was being toldof the sunny skies and the forest winds, the singing birds and thebabbling brooks. Perhaps again now he would understand.

What if, for those sightless eyes, one could create a world?

Possibly never before had David played as he played then. It was as ifupon those four quivering strings, he was laying the purple and gold ofa thousand sunsets, the rose and amber of a thousand sunrises, thegreen of a boundless earth, the blue of a sky that reached to heavenitself—to make Joe understand.

"Gee!" breathed Joe, when the music came to an end with a crashingchord. "Say, wa'n't that just great? Won't you let me, please, justtouch that fiddle?" And David, looking into the blind boy's exaltedface, knew that Joe had indeed—understood.

CHAPTER X

THE LADY OF THE ROSES

It was a new world, indeed, that David created for Joe after that—aworld that had to do with entrancing music where once was silence;delightful companionship where once was loneliness; and toothsomecookies and doughnuts where once was hunger.

The Widow Glaspell, Joe's mother, worked out by the day, scrubbing andwashing; and Joe, perforce, was left to the somewhat erratic anddecidedly unskillful ministrations of Betty. Betty was no worse, and nobetter, than any other untaught, irresponsible twelve-year-old girl,and it was not to be expected, perhaps, that she would care to spendall the bright sunny hours shut up with her sorely afflicted andsomewhat fretful brother. True, at noon she never failed to appear andprepare something that passed for a dinner for herself and Joe. But theGlaspell larder was frequently almost as empty as were the hungrystomachs that looked to it for refreshment; and it would have taken afar more skillful cook than was the fly-away Betty to evolve anythingfrom it that was either palatable or satisfying.

With the coming of David into Joe's life all this was changed. First,there were the music and the companionship. Joe's father had "played inthe band" in his youth, and (according to the Widow Glaspell) had beena "powerful hand for music." It was from him, presumably, that Joe hadinherited his passion for melody and harmony; and it was no wonder thatDavid recognized so soon in the blind boy the spirit that made themkin. At the first stroke of David's bow, indeed, the dingy walls aboutthem would crumble into nothingness, and together the two boys were offin a fairy world of loveliness and joy.

Nor was listening always Joe's part. From "just touching" theviolin—his first longing plea—he came to drawing a timid bow acrossthe strings. In an incredibly short time, then, he was picking out bitsof melody; and by the end of a fortnight David had brought his father'sviolin for Joe to practice on.

"I can't GIVE it to you—not for keeps," David had explained, a bittremulously, "because it was daddy's, you know; and when I see it, itseems almost as if I was seeing him. But you may take it. Then you canhave it here to play on whenever you like."

After that, in Joe's own hands lay the power to transport himself intoanother world, for with the violin for company he knew no loneliness.

Nor was the violin all that David brought to the house. There were thedoughnuts and the cookies. Very early in his visits David haddiscovered, much to his surprise, that Joe and Betty were often hungry.

"But why don't you go down to the store and buy something?" he hadqueried at once.

Upon being told that there was no money to buy with, David's firstimpulse had been to bring several of the gold-pieces the next time hecame; but upon second thoughts David decided that he did not dare. Hewas not wishing to be called a thief a second time. It would be better,he concluded, to bring some food from the house instead.

In his mountain home everything the house afforded in the way of foodhad always been freely given to the few strangers that found their wayto the cabin door. So now David had no hesitation in going to Mrs.Holly's pantry for supplies, upon the occasion of his next visit to JoeGlaspell's.

Mrs. Holly, coming into the kitchen, found him merging from the pantrywith both hands full of cookies and doughnuts.

"Why, David, what in the world does this mean?" she demanded.

"They're for Joe and Betty," smiled David happily.

"For Joe and—But those doughnuts and cookies don't belong to you.They're mine!"

"Yes, I know they are. I told them you had plenty," nodded David.

"Plenty! What if I have?" remonstrated Mrs. Holly, in growingindignation. "That doesn't mean that you can take—" Something inDavid's face stopped the words half-spoken.

"You don't mean that I CAN'T take them to Joe and Betty, do you? Why,Mrs. Holly, they're hungry! Joe and Betty are. They don't have halfenough to eat. Betty said so. And we've got more than we want. There'sfood left on the table every day. Why, if YOU were hungry, wouldn't youwant somebody to bring—"

But Mrs. Holly stopped him with a despairing gesture.

"There, there, never mind. Run along. Of course you can take them.I'm—I'm GLAD to have you," she finished, in a desperate attempt todrive from David's face that look of shocked incredulity with which hewas still regarding her.

Never again did Mrs. Holly attempt to thwart David's generosity to theGlaspells; but she did try to regulate it. She saw to it thatthereafter, upon his visits to the house, he took only certain thingsand a certain amount, and invariably things of her own choosing.

But not always toward the Glaspell shanty did David turn his steps.Very frequently it was in quite another direction. He had been at theHolly farmhouse three weeks when he found his Lady of the Roses.

He had passed quite through the village that day, and had come to aroad that was new to him. It was a beautiful road, smooth, white, andfirm. Two huge granite posts topped with flaming nasturtiums marked thepoint where it turned off from the main highway. Beyond these, as Davidsoon found, it ran between wide-spreading lawns and flowering shrubs,leading up the gentle slope of a hill. Where it led to, David did notknow, but he proceeded unhesitatingly to try to find out. For some timehe climbed the slope in silence, his violin, mute, under his arm; butthe white road still lay in tantalizing mystery before him when aby-path offered the greater temptation, and lured him to explore itscool shadowy depths instead.

Had David but known it, he was at Sunny-crest, Hinsdale's one "showplace," the country home of its one really rich resident, Miss BarbaraHolbrook. Had he also but known it, Miss Holbrook was not celebratedfor her graciousness to any visitors, certainly not to those whoventured to approach her otherwise than by a conventional ring at herfront doorbell. But David did not know all this; and he therefore veryhappily followed the shady path until he came to the Wonder at the endof it.

The Wonder, in Hinsdale parlance, was only Miss Holbrook's garden, butin David's eyes it was fairyland come true. For one whole minute hecould only stand like a very ordinary little boy and stare. At the endof the minute he became himself once more; and being himself, heexpressed his delight at once in the only way he knew how to do—byraising his violin and beginning to play.

He had meant to tell of the limpid pool and of the arch of the bridgeit reflected; of the terraced lawns and marble steps, and of thegleaming white of the sculptured nymphs and fauns; of the splashes ofglorious crimson, yellow, blush-pink, and snowy white against thegreen, where the roses rioted in luxurious bloom. He had meant, also,to tell of the Queen Rose of them all—the beauteous lady with hairlike the gold of sunrise, and a gown like the shimmer of the moon onwater—of all this he had meant to tell; but he had scarcely begun totell it at all when the Beauteous Lady of the Roses sprang to her feetand became so very much like an angry young woman who is seriouslydispleased that David could only lower his violin in dismay.

"Why, boy, what does this mean?" she demanded.

David sighed a little impatiently as he came forward into the sunlight.

"But I was just telling you," he remonstrated, "and you would not letme finish."

"Telling me!"

"Yes, with my violin. COULDn't you understand?" appealed the boywistfully. "You looked as if you could!"

"Looked as if I could!"

"Yes. Joe understood, you see, and I was surprised when HE did. But Iwas just sure you could—with all this to look at."

The lady frowned. Half-unconsciously she glanced about her as ifcontemplating flight. Then she turned back to the boy.

"But how came you here? Who are you?" she cried.

"I'm David. I walked here through the little path back there. I didn'tknow where it went to, but I'm so glad now I found out!"

"Oh, are you!" murmured the lady, with slightly uplifted brows.

She was about to tell him very coldly that now that he had found hisway there he might occupy himself in finding it home again, when theboy interposed rapturously, his eyes sweeping the scene before him:—

"Yes. I didn't suppose, anywhere, down here, there was a place one halfso beautiful!"

An odd feeling of uncanniness sent a swift exclamation to the lady'slips.

"'Down here'! What do you mean by that? You speak as if you camefrom—above," she almost laughed.

"I did," returned David simply. "But even up there I never foundanything quite like this,"—with a sweep of his hands,—"nor like you,O Lady of the Roses," he finished with an admiration that was as openas it was ardent.

This time the lady laughed outright. She even blushed a little.

"Very prettily put, Sir Flatterer" she retorted; "but when you areolder, young man, you won't make your compliments quite so broad. I amno Lady of the Roses. I am Miss Holbrook; and—and I am not in thehabit of receiving gentlemen callers who are uninvitedand—unannounced," she concluded, a little sharply.

Pointless the shaft fell at David's feet. He had turned again to thebeauties about him, and at that moment he spied the sundial—somethinghe had never seen before.

"What is it?" he cried eagerly, hurrying forward. "It isn't exactlypretty, and yet it looks as if 't were meant for—something."

"It is. It is a sundial. It marks the time by the sun."

Even as she spoke, Miss Holbrook wondered why she answered the questionat all; why she did not send this small piece of nonchalantimpertinence about his business, as he so richly deserved. The nextinstant she found herself staring at the boy in amazement. Withunmistakable ease, and with the trained accent of the scholar, he wasreading aloud the Latin inscription on the dial: "'Horas non numeronisi serenas,' 'I count—no—hours but—unclouded ones,'" he translatedthen, slowly, though with confidence. "That's pretty; but what does itmean—about 'counting'?"

Miss Holbrook rose to her feet.

"For Heaven's sake, boy, who, and what are you?" she demanded. "Can YOUread Latin?"

"Why, of course! Can't you?" With a disdainful gesture Miss Holbrookswept this aside.

"Boy, who are you?" she demanded again imperatively.

"I'm David. I told you."

"But David who? Where do you live?"

The boy's face clouded.

"I'm David—just David. I live at Farmer Holly's now; but I did live onthe mountain with—father, you know."

A great light of understanding broke over Miss Holbrook's face. Shedropped back into her seat.

"Oh, I remember," she murmured. "You're the little—er—boy whom hetook. I have heard the story. So THAT is who you are," she added, theold look of aversion coming back to her eyes. She had almost said "thelittle tramp boy"—but she had stopped in time.

"Yes. And now what do they mean, please,—those words,—'I count nohours but unclouded ones'?"

Miss Holbrook stirred in her seat and frowned.

"Why, it means what it says, of course, boy. A sundial counts its hoursby the shadow the sun throws, and when there is no sun there is noshadow; hence it's only the sunny hours that are counted by the dial,"she explained a little fretfully.

David's face radiated delight.

"Oh, but I like that!" he exclaimed.

"You like it!"

"Yes. I should like to be one myself, you know."

"Well, really! And how, pray?" In spite of herself a faint gleam ofinterest came into Miss Holbrook's eyes.

David laughed and dropped himself easily to the ground at her feet. Hewas holding his violin on his knees now.

"Why, it would be such fun," he chuckled, "to just forget all about thehours when the sun didn't shine, and remember only the nice, pleasantones. Now for me, there wouldn't be any hours, really, until after fouro'clock, except little specks of minutes that I'd get in between when IDID see something interesting."

Miss Holbrook stared frankly.

"What an extraordinary boy you are, to be sure," she murmured. "Andwhat, may I ask, is it that you do every day until four o'clock, thatyou wish to forget?"

David sighed.

"Well, there are lots of things. I hoed potatoes and corn, first, butthey're too big now, mostly; and I pulled up weeds, too, till they weregone. I've been picking up stones, lately, and clearing up the yard.Then, of course, there's always the woodbox to fill, and the eggs tohunt, besides the chickens to feed,—though I don't mind THEM so much;but I do the other things, 'specially the weeds. They were so muchprettier than the things I had to let grow, 'most always."

Miss Holbrook laughed.

"Well, they were; and really" persisted the boy, in answer to themerriment in her eyes; "now wouldn't it be nice to be like the sundial,and forget everything the sun didn't shine on? Would n't you like it?Isn't there anything YOU want to forget?"

Miss Holbrook sobered instantly. The change in her face was so verymarked, indeed, that involuntarily David looked about for somethingthat might have cast upon it so great a shadow. For a long minute shedid not speak; then very slowly, very bitterly, she said aloud—yet asif to herself:—

"Yes. If I had my way I'd forget them every one—these hours; everysingle one!"

"Oh, Lady of the Roses!" expostulated David in a voice quivering withshocked dismay. "You don't mean—you can't mean that you don't haveANY—sun!"

"I mean just that," bowed Miss Holbrook wearily, her eyes on the sombershadows of the pool; "just that!"

David sat stunned, confounded. Across the marble steps and the terracesthe shadows lengthened, and David watched them as the sun dipped behindthe tree-tops. They seemed to make more vivid the chill and the gloomof the lady's words—more real the day that had no sun. After a timethe boy picked up his violin and began to play, softly, and at firstwith evident hesitation. Even when his touch became more confident,there was still in the music a questioning appeal that seemed to findno answer—an appeal that even the player himself could not haveexplained.

For long minutes the young woman and the boy sat thus in the twilight.Then suddenly the woman got to her feet.

"Come, come, boy, what can I be thinking of?" she cried sharply. "Imust go in and you must go home. Good-night." And she swept across thegrass to the path that led toward the house.

CHAPTER XI

JACK AND JILL

David was tempted to go for a second visit to his Lady of the Roses,but something he could not define held him back. The lady was in hismind almost constantly, however; and very vivid to him was the pictureof the garden, though always it was as he had seen it last with thehush and shadow of twilight, and with the lady's face gloomily turnedtoward the sunless pool. David could not forget that for her there wereno hours to count; she had said it herself. He could not understand howthis could be so; and the thought filled him with vague unrest and pain.

Perhaps it was this restlessness that drove David to explore even morepersistently the village itself, sending him into new streets in searchof something strange and interesting. One day the sound of shouts andlaughter drew him to an open lot back of the church where some boyswere at play.

David still knew very little of boys. In his mountain home he had neverhad them for playmates, and he had not seen much of them when he wentwith his father to the mountain village for supplies. There had been,it is true, the boy who frequently brought milk and eggs to the cabin;but he had been very quiet and shy, appearing always afraid and anxiousto get away, as if he had been told not to stay. More recently, sinceDavid had been at the Holly farmhouse, his experience with boys hadbeen even less satisfying. The boys—with the exception of blindJoe—had very clearly let it be understood that they had little use fora youth who could find nothing better to do than to tramp through thewoods and the streets with a fiddle under his arm.

To-day, however, there came a change. Perhaps they were more used tohim; or perhaps they had decided suddenly that it might be good fun tosatisfy their curiosity, anyway, regardless of consequences. Whateverit was, the lads hailed his appearance with wild shouts of glee.

"Golly, boys, look! Here's the fiddlin' kid," yelled one; and theothers joined in the "Hurrah!" he gave.

David smiled delightedly; once more he had found some one who wantedhim—and it was so nice to be wanted! Truth to tell, David had felt nota little hurt at the persistent avoidance of all those boys and girlsof his own age.

"How—how do you do?" he said diffidently, but still with that beamingsmile.

Again the boys shouted gleefully as they hurried forward. Several hadshort sticks in their hands. One had an old tomato can with a stringtied to it. The tallest boy had something that he was trying to holdbeneath his coat.

"'H—how do you do?'" they mimicked. "How do you do, fiddlin' kid?"

"I'm David; my name is David." The reminder was graciously given, witha smile.

"David! David! His name is David," chanted the boys, as if they were acomic-opera chorus.

David laughed outright.

"Oh, sing it again, sing it again!" he crowed. "That sounded fine!"

The boys stared, then sniffed disdainfully, and cast derisive glancesinto each other's eyes—it appeared that this little sissy tramp boydid not even know enough to discover when he was being laughed at!

"David! David! His name is David," they jeered into his face again."Come on, tune her up! We want ter dance."

"Play? Of course I'll play," cried David joyously, raising his violinand testing a string for its tone.

"Here, hold on," yelled the tallest boy. "The Queen o' the Ballet ain'tready". And he cautiously pulled from beneath his coat a strugglingkitten with a perforated bag tied over its head.

"Sure! We want her in the middle," grinned the boy with the tin can."Hold on till I get her train tied to her," he finished, trying tocapture the swishing, fluffy tail of the frightened little cat.

David had begun to play, but he stopped his music with a discordantstroke of the bow.

"What are you doing? What is the matter with that cat?" he demanded.

"'Matter'!" called a derisive voice. "Sure, nothin' 's the matter withher. She's the Queen o' the Ballet—she is!"

"What do you mean?" cried David. At that moment the string bit hardinto the captured tail, and the kitten cried out with the pain. "Lookout! You're hurting her," cautioned David sharply.

Only a laugh and a jeering word answered. Then the kitten, with the bagon its head and the tin can tied to its tail, was let warily to theground, the tall boy still holding its back with both hands.

"Ready, now! Come on, play," he ordered; "then we'll set her dancing."

David's eyes flashed.

"I will not play—for that."

The boys stopped laughing suddenly.

"Eh? What?" They could scarcely have been more surprised if the kittenitself had said the words.

"I say I won't play—I can't play—unless you let that cat go."

"Hoity-toity! Won't ye hear that now?" laughed a mocking voice. "Andwhat if we say we won't let her go, eh?"

"Then I'll make you," vowed David, aflame with a newborn something thatseemed to have sprung full-grown into being.

"Yow!" hooted the tallest boy, removing both hands from the captivekitten.

The kitten, released, began to back frantically. The can, dangling atits heels, rattled and banged and thumped, until the frightened littlecreature, crazed with terror, became nothing but a whirling mass ofmisery. The boys, formed now into a crowing circle of delight, kept thekitten within bounds, and flouted David mercilessly.

"Ah, ha!—stop us, will ye? Why don't ye stop us?" they gibed.

For a moment David stood without movement, his eyes staring. The nextinstant he turned and ran. The jeers became a chorus of triumphantshouts then—but not for long. David had only hurried to the woodpileto lay down his violin. He came back then, on the run—and before thetallest boy could catch his breath he was felled by a stinging blow onthe jaw.

Over by the church a small girl, red-haired and red-eyed, clamberedhastily over the fence behind which for long minutes she had beencrying and wringing her hands.

"He'll be killed, he'll be killed," she moaned. "And it's my fault,'cause it's my kitty—it's my kitty," she sobbed, straining her eyes tocatch a glimpse of the kitten's protector in the squirming mass of legsand arms.

The kitten, unheeded now by the boys, was pursuing its backward whirlto destruction some distance away, and very soon the little girldiscovered her. With a bound and a choking cry she reached the kitten,removed the bag and unbound the cruel string. Then, sitting on theground, a safe distance away, she soothed the palpitating little bunchof gray fur, and watched with fearful eyes the fight.

And what a fight it was! There was no question, of course, as to itsfinal outcome, with six against one; but meanwhile the one was givingthe six the surprise of their lives in the shape of well-dealt blowsand skillful twists and turns that caused their own strength and weightto react upon themselves in a most astonishing fashion. The oneunmistakably was getting the worst of it, however, when the littlegirl, after a hurried dash to the street, brought back with her to therescue a tall, smooth-shaven young man whom she had hailed from afar as"Jack."

Jack put a stop to things at once. With vigorous jerks and pulls heunsnarled the writhing mass, boy by boy, each one of whom, uponcatching sight of his face, slunk hurriedly away, as if glad to escapeso lightly. There was left finally upon the ground only David alone.But when David did at last appear, the little girl burst into tearsanew.

"Oh, Jack, he's killed—I know he's killed," she wailed. "And he was sonice and—and pretty. And now—look at him! Ain't he a sight?"

David was not killed, but he was—a sight. His blouse was torn, his tiewas gone, and his face and hands were covered with dirt and blood.Above one eye was an ugly-looking lump, and below the other was a redbruise. Somewhat dazedly he responded to the man's helpful hand, pulledhimself upright, and looked about him. He did not see the little girlbehind him.

"Where's the cat?" he asked anxiously.

The unexpected happened then. With a sobbing cry the little girl flungherself upon him, cat and all.

"Here, right here," she choked. "And it was you who saved her—myJuliette! And I'll love you, love you, love you always for it!"

"There, there, Jill," interposed the man a little hurriedly. "Supposewe first show our gratitude by seeing if we can't do something to makeour young warrior here more comfortable." And he began to brush offwith his handkerchief some of the accumulated dirt.

"Why can't we take him home, Jack, and clean him up 'fore other folkssee him?" suggested the girl.

The boy turned quickly.

"Did you call him 'Jack'?"

"Yes."

"And he called you, Jill'?"

"Yes."

"The real 'Jack and Jill' that 'went up the hill'?" The man and thegirl laughed; but the girl shook her head as she answered,—

"Not really—though we do go up a hill, all right, every day. But thosearen't even our own names. We just call each other that for fun. Don'tYOU ever call things—for fun?"

David's face lighted up in spite of the dirt, the lump, and the bruise.

"Oh, do you do that?" he breathed. "Say, I just know I'd like to playto you! You'd understand!"

"Oh, yes, and he plays, too," explained the little girl, turning to theman rapturously. "On a fiddle, you know, like you."

She had not finished her sentence before David was away, hurrying alittle unsteadily across the lot for his violin. When he came back theman was looking at him with an anxious frown.

"Suppose you come home with us, boy," he said. "It isn't far—throughthe hill pasture, 'cross lots,—and we'll look you over a bit. Thatlump over your eye needs attention."

"Thank you," beamed David. "I'd like to go, and—I'm glad you want me!"He spoke to the man, but he looked at the little red-headed girl, whostill held the gray kitten in her arms.

CHAPTER XII

ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER

"Jack and Jill," it appeared, were a brother and sister who lived in atiny house on a hill directly across the creek from Sunnycrest. Beyondthis David learned little until after bumps and bruises and dirt hadbeen carefully attended to. He had then, too, some questions to answerconcerning himself.

"And now, if you please," began the man smilingly, as he surveyed theboy with an eye that could see no further service to be rendered, "doyou mind telling me who you are, and how you came to be the center ofattraction for the blows and cuffs of six boys?"

"I'm David, and I wanted the cat," returned the boy simply.

"Well, that's direct and to the point, to say the least," laughed theman. "Evidently, however, you're in the habit of being that. But,David, there were six of them,—those boys,—and some of them werelarger than you."

"Yes, sir."

"And they were so bad and cruel," chimed in the little girl.

The man hesitated, then questioned slowly.

"And may I ask you where you—er—learned to—fight like that?"

"I used to box with father. He said I must first be well and strong. Hetaught me jiujitsu, too, a little; but I couldn't make it work verywell—with so many."

"I should say not," adjudged the man grimly. "But you gave them asurprise or two, I'll warrant," he added, his eyes on the cause of thetrouble, now curled in a little gray bunch of content on the windowsill. "But I don't know yet who you are. Who is your father? Where doeshe live?"

David shook his head. As was always the case when his father wasmentioned, his face grew wistful and his eyes dreamy.

"He doesn't live here anywhere," murmured the boy. "In the far countryhe is waiting for me to come to him and tell him of the beautiful worldI have found, you know."

"Eh? What?" stammered the man, not knowing whether to believe his eyes,or his ears. This boy who fought like a demon and talked like a saint,and who, though battered and bruised, prattled of the "beautiful world"he had found, was most disconcerting.

"Why, Jack, don't you know?" whispered the little girl agitatedly."He's the boy at Mr. Holly's that they took." Then, still more softly:"He's the little tramp boy. His father died in the barn."

"Oh," said the man, his face clearing, and his eyes showing a quicksympathy. "You're the boy at the Holly farmhouse, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he plays the fiddle everywhere," volunteered the little girl, withardent admiration. "If you hadn't been shut up sick just now, you'dhave heard him yourself. He plays everywhere—everywhere he goes."

"Is that so?" murmured Jack politely, shuddering a little at what hefancied would come from a violin played by a boy like the one beforehim. (Jack could play the violin himself a little—enough to know itsome, and love it more.) "Hm-m; well, and what else do you do?"

"Nothing, except to go for walks and read."

"Nothing!—a big boy like you—and on Simeon Holly's farm?" Voice andmanner showed that Jack was not unacquainted with Simeon Holly and hismethods and opinions.

David laughed gleefully.

"Oh, of course, REALLY I do lots of things, only I don't count thoseany more. 'Horas non numero nisi serenas,' you know," he quotedpleasantly, smiling into the man's astonished eyes.

"Jack, what was that—what he said?" whispered the little girl. "Itsounded foreign. IS he foreign?"

"You've got me, Jill," retorted the man, with a laughing grimace."Heaven only knows what he is—I don't. What he SAID was Latin; I dohappen to know that. Still"—he turned to the boy ironically—"ofcourse you know the translation of that," he said.

"Oh, yes. 'I count no hours but unclouded ones'—and I liked that. 'Twas on a sundial, you know; and I'M going to be a sundial, and notcount, the hours I don't like—while I'm pulling up weeds, and hoeingpotatoes, and picking up stones, and all that. Don't you see?"

For a moment the man stared dumbly. Then he threw back his head andlaughed.

"Well, by George!" he muttered. "By George!" And he laughed again.Then: "And did your father teach you that, too?" he asked.

"Oh, no,—well, he taught me Latin, and so of course I could read itwhen I found it. But those 'special words I got off the sundial wheremy Lady of the Roses lives."

"Your—Lady of the Roses! And who is she?"

"Why, don't you know? You live right in sight of her house," criedDavid, pointing to the towers of Sunnycrest that showed above thetrees. "It's over there she lives. I know those towers now, and I lookfor them wherever I go. I love them. It makes me see all over again theroses—and her."

"You mean—Miss Holbrook?"

The voice was so different from the genial tones that he had heardbefore that David looked up in surprise.

"Yes; she said that was her name," he answered, wondering at theindefinable change that had come to the man's face.

There was a moment's pause, then the man rose to his feet.

"How's your head? Does it ache?" he asked briskly.

"Not much—some. I—I think I'll be going," replied David, a littleawkwardly, reaching for his violin, and unconsciously showing by hismanner the sudden chill in the atmosphere.

The little girl spoke then. She overwhelmed him again with thanks, andpointed to the contented kitten on the window sill. True, she did nottell him this time that she would love, love, love him always; but shebeamed upon him gratefully and she urged him to come soon again, andoften.

David bowed himself off, with many a backward wave of the hand, andmany a promise to come again. Not until he had quite reached the bottomof the hill did he remember that the man, "Jack," had said almostnothing at the last. As David recollected him, indeed, he had last beenseen standing beside one of the veranda posts, with gloomy eyes fixedon the towers of Sunnycrest that showed red-gold above the tree-tops inthe last rays of the setting sun.

It was a bad half-hour that David spent at the Holly farmhouse inexplanation of his torn blouse and bruised face. Farmer Holly did notapprove of fights, and he said so, very sternly indeed. Even Mrs.Holly, who was usually so kind to him, let David understand that he wasin deep disgrace, though she was very tender to his wounds.

David did venture to ask her, however, before he went upstairs to bed:—

"Mrs. Holly, who are those people—Jack and Jill—that were so good tome this afternoon?"

"They are John Gurnsey and his sister, Julia; but the whole town knowsthem by the names they long ago gave themselves, 'Jack' and 'Jill.'"

"And do they live all alone in the little house?"

"Yes, except for the Widow Glaspell, who comes in several times a week,I believe, to cook and wash and sweep. They aren't very happy, I'mafraid, David, and I'm glad you could rescue the little girl's kittenfor her—but you mustn't fight. No good can come of fighting!"

"I got the cat—by fighting."

"Yes, yes, I know; but—" She did not finish her sentence, and Davidwas only waiting for a pause to ask another question.

"Why aren't they happy, Mrs. Holly?"

"Tut, tut, David, it's a long story, and you wouldn't understand it ifI told it. It's only that they're all alone in the world, and JackGurnsey isn't well. He must be thirty years old now. He had brighthopes not so long ago studying law, or something of the sort, in thecity. Then his father died, and his mother, and he lost his health.Something ails his lungs, and the doctors sent him here to be out ofdoors. He even sleeps out of doors, they say. Anyway, he's here, andhe's making a home for his sister; but, of course, with his hopes andambitions—But there, David, you don't understand, of course!"

"Oh, yes, I do," breathed David, his eyes pensively turned toward ashadowy corner. "He found his work out in the world, and then he had tostop and couldn't do it. Poor Mr. Jack!"

CHAPTER XIII

A SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK

Life at the Holly farmhouse was not what it had been. The coming ofDavid had introduced new elements that promised complications. Notbecause he was another mouth to feed—Simeon Holly was not worryingabout that part any longer. Crops showed good promise, and all ready inthe bank even now was the necessary money to cover the dreaded note,due the last of August. The complicating elements in regard to Davidwere of quite another nature.

To Simeon Holly the boy was a riddle to be sternly solved. To EllenHolly he was an everpresent reminder of the little boy of long ago, andas such was to be loved and trained into a semblance of what that boymight have become. To Perry Larson, David was the "derndestcheckerboard of sense an' nonsense goin'"—a game over which to chuckle.

At the Holly farmhouse they could not understand a boy who would leavea supper for a sunset, or who preferred a book to a toy pistol—asPerry Larson found out was the case on the Fourth of July; who pickedflowers, like a girl, for the table, yet who unhesitatingly struck thefirst blow in a fight with six antagonists: who would not go fishingbecause the fishes would not like it, nor hunting for any sort of wildthing that had life; who hung entranced for an hour over the "millionsof lovely striped bugs" in a field of early potatoes, and who promptlyand stubbornly refused to sprinkle those same "lovely bugs" with Parisgreen when discovered at his worship. All this was most perplexing, tosay the least.

Yet David worked, and worked well, and in most cases he obeyed orderswillingly. He learned much, too, that was interesting and profitable;nor was he the only one that made strange discoveries during those Julydays. The Hollys themselves learned much. They learned that the rose ofsunset and the gold of sunrise were worth looking at; and that themassing of the thunderheads in the west meant more than just a shower.They learned, too, that the green of the hilltop and of thefar-reaching meadow was more than grass, and that the purple haze alongthe horizon was more than the mountains that lay between them and thenext State. They were beginning to see the world with David's eyes.

There were, too, the long twilights and evenings when David, on thewings of his violin, would speed away to his mountain home, leavingbehind him a man and a woman who seemed to themselves to be listeningto the voice of a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked lad who once played attheir knees and nestled in their arms when the day was done. And here,too, the Hollys were learning; though the thing thus learned was hiddendeep in their hearts.

It was not long after David's first visit that the boy went again to"The House that Jack Built," as the Gurnseys called their tiny home.(Though in reality it had been Jack's father who had built the house.Jack and Jill, however, did not always deal with realities.) It was nota pleasant afternoon. There was a light mist in the air, and David waswithout his violin.

"I came to—to inquire for the cat—Juliette," he began, a littlebashfully. "I thought I'd rather do that than read to-day," heexplained to Jill in the doorway.

"Good! I'm so glad! I hoped you'd come," the little girl welcomed him."Come in and—and see Juliette," she added hastily, remembering at thelast moment that her brother had not looked with entire favor on heravowed admiration for this strange little boy.

Juliette, roused from her nap, was at first inclined to resent hervisitor's presence. In five minutes, however, she was purring in hislap.

The conquest of the kitten once accomplished, David looked about him alittle restlessly. He began to wonder why he had come. He wished he hadgone to see Joe Glaspell instead. He wished that Jill would not sit andstare at him like that. He wished that she would saysomething—anything. But Jill, apparently struck dumb withembarrassment, was nervously twisting the corner of her apron into alittle knot. David tried to recollect what he had talked about a fewdays before, and he wondered why he had so enjoyed himself then. Hewished that something would happen—anything!—and then from an innerroom came the sound of a violin.

David raised his head.

"It's Jack," stammered the little girl—who also had been wishingsomething would happen. "He plays, same as you do, on the violin."

"Does he?" beamed David. "But—" He paused, listening, a quick frown onhis face.

Over and over the violin was playing a single phrase—and thevariations in the phrase showed the indecision of the fingers and ofthe mind that controlled them. Again and again with irritatingsameness, yet with a still more irritating difference, came thesuccession of notes. And then David sprang to his feet, placingJuliette somewhat unceremoniously on the floor, much to that pettedyoung autocrat's disgust.

"Here, where is he? Let me show him," cried the boy, and at the note ofcommand in his voice, Jill involuntarily rose and opened the door toJack's den.

"Oh, please, Mr. Jack," burst out David, hurrying into the room. "Don'tyou see? You don't go at that thing right. If you'll just let me showyou a minute, we'll have it fixed in no time!"

The man with the violin stared, and lowered his bow. A slow red came tohis face. The phrase was peculiarly a difficult one, and beyond him, ashe knew; but that did not make the present intrusion into his privacyany the more welcome.

"Oh, will we, indeed!" he retorted, a little sharply. "Don't troubleyourself, I beg of you, boy."

"But it isn't a mite of trouble, truly," urged David, with an ardorthat ignored the sarcasm in the other's words. "I WANT to do it."

Despite his annoyance, the man gave a short laugh.

"Well, David, I believe you. And I'll warrant you'd tackle this Brahmsconcerto as nonchalantly as you did those six hoodlums with the cat theother day—and expect to win out, too!"

"But, truly, this is easy, when you know how," laughed the boy. "See!"

To his surprise, the man found himself relinquishing the violin and bowinto the slim, eager hands that reached for them. The next moment hefell back in amazement. Clear, distinct, yet connected like a string ofrounded pearls fell the troublesome notes from David's bow. "You see,"smiled the boy again, and played the phrase a second time, more slowly,and with deliberate emphasis at the difficult part. Then, as if inanswer to some irresistible summons within him, he dashed into the nextphrase and, with marvelous technique, played quite through the ripplingcadenza that completed the movement.

"Well, by George!" breathed the man dazedly, as he took the offeredviolin. The next moment he had demanded vehemently: "For Heaven's sake,who ARE you, boy?"

David's face wrinkled in grieved surprise.

"Why, I'm David. Don't you remember? I was here just the other day!"

"Yes, yes; but who taught you to play like that?"

"Father."

"'Father'!" The man echoed the word with a gesture of comic despair."First Latin, then jiujitsu, and now the violin! Boy, who was yourfather?"

David lifted his head and frowned a little. He had been questioned sooften, and so unsympathetically, about his father that he was beginningto resent it.

"He was daddy—just daddy; and I loved him dearly."

"But what was his name?"

"I don't know. We didn't seem to have a name like—like yours downhere. Anyway, if we did, I didn't know what it was."

"But, David,"—the man was speaking very gently now. He had motionedthe boy to a low seat by his side. The little girl was standing near,her eyes alight with wondering interest. "He must have had a name, youknow, just the same. Didn't you ever hear any one call him anything?Think, now."

"No." David said the single word, and turned his eyes away. It hadoccurred to him, since he had come to live in the valley, that perhapshis father did not want to have his name known. He remembered that oncethe milk-and-eggs boy had asked what to call him; and his father hadlaughed and answered: "I don't see but you'll have to call me 'The OldMan of the Mountain,' as they do down in the village." That was theonly time David could recollect hearing his father say anything abouthis name. At the time David had not thought much about it. But sincethen, down here where they appeared to think a name was so important,he had wondered if possibly his father had not preferred to keep his tohimself. If such were the case, he was glad now that he did not knowthis name, so that he might not have to tell all these inquisitivepeople who asked so many questions about it. He was glad, too, thatthose men had not been able to read his father's name at the end of hisother note that first morning—if his father really did not wish hisname to be known.

"But, David, think. Where you lived, wasn't there ever anybody whocalled him by name?"

David shook his head.

"I told you. We were all alone, father and I, in the little house farup on the mountain."

"And—your mother?" Again David shook his head.

"She is an angel-mother, and angel-mothers don't live in houses, youknow."

There was a moment's pause; then gently the man asked:—

"And you always lived there?"

"Six years, father said."

"And before that?"

"I don't remember." There was a touch of injured reserve in the boy'svoice which the man was quick to perceive. He took the hint at once.

"He must have been a wonderful man—your father!" he exclaimed.

The boy turned, his eyes luminous with feeling.

"He was—he was perfect! But they—down here—don't seem to know—orcare," he choked.

"Oh, but that's because they don't understand," soothed the man. "Now,tell me—you must have practiced a lot to play like that."

"I did—but I liked it."

"And what else did you do? and how did you happen to come—down here?"

Once again David told his story, more fully, perhaps, this time thanever before, because of the sympathetic ears that were listening.

"But now" he finished wistfully, "it's all, so different, and I'm downhere alone. Daddy went, you know, to the far country; and he can't comeback from there."

"Who told you—that?"

"Daddy himself. He wrote it to me."

"Wrote it to you!" cried the man, sitting suddenly erect.

"Yes. It was in his pocket, you see. They—found it." David's voice wasvery low, and not quite steady.

"David, may I see—that letter?"

The boy hesitated; then slowly he drew it from his pocket.

"Yes, Mr. Jack. I'll let YOU see it."

Reverently, tenderly, but very eagerly the man took the note and readit through, hoping somewhere to find a name that would help solve themystery. With a sigh he handed it back. His eyes were wet.

"Thank you, David. That is a beautiful letter," he said softly. "And Ibelieve you'll do it some day, too. You'll go to him with your violinat your chin and the bow drawn across the strings to tell him of thebeautiful world you have found."

"Yes, sir," said David simply. Then, with a suddenly radiant smile:"And NOW I can't help finding it a beautiful world, you know, 'cause Idon't count the hours I don't like."

"You don't what?—oh, I remember," returned Mr. Jack, a quick changecoming to his face.

"Yes, the sundial, you know, where my Lady of the Roses lives."

"Jack, what is a sundial?" broke in Jill eagerly.

Jack turned, as if in relief.

"Hullo, girlie, you there?—and so still all this time? Ask David.He'll tell you what a sundial is. Suppose, anyhow, that you two go outon the piazza now. I've got—er-some work to do. And the sun itself isout; see?—through the trees there. It came out just to say'good-night,' I'm sure. Run along, quick!" And he playfully drove themfrom the room.

Alone, he turned and sat down at his desk. His work was before him, buthe did not do it. His eyes were out of the window on the golden tops ofthe towers of Sunnycrest. Motionless, he watched them until they turnedgray-white in the twilight. Then he picked up his pencil and began towrite feverishly. He went to the window, however, as David stepped offthe veranda, and called merrily:—

"Remember, boy, that when there's another note that baffles me, I'mgoing to send for you."

"He's coming anyhow. I asked him," announced Jill.

And David laughed back a happy "Of course I am!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE TOWER WINDOW

It is not to be expected that when one's thoughts lead so persistentlyto a certain place, one's feet will not follow, if they can; andDavid's could—so he went to seek his Lady of the Roses.

At four o'clock one afternoon, with his violin under his arm, hetraveled the firm white road until he came to the shadowed path thatled to the garden. He had decided that he would go exactly as he wentbefore. He expected, in consequence, to find his Lady exactly as he hadfound her before, sitting reading under the roses. Great was hissurprise and disappointment, therefore, to find the garden with no onein it.

He had told himself that it was the sundial, the roses, the shimmeringpool, the garden itself that he wanted to see; but he knew now that itwas the lady—his Lady of the Roses. He did not even care to play,though all around him was the beauty that had at first so charmed hiseye. Very slowly he walked across the sunlit, empty space, and enteredthe path that led to the house. In his mind was no definite plan; yethe walked on and on, until he came to the wide lawns surrounding thehouse itself. He stopped then, entranced.

Stone upon stone the majestic pile raised itself until it was etched,clean-cut, against the deep blue of the sky. The towers—histowers—brought to David's lips a cry of delight. They were even moreenchanting here than when seen from afar over the tree-tops, and Davidgazed up at them in awed wonder. From somewhere came the sound ofmusic—a curious sort of music that David had never heard before. Helistened intently, trying to place it; then slowly he crossed the lawn,ascended the imposing stone steps, and softly opened one of the narrowscreen doors before the wide-open French window.

Once within the room David drew a long breath of ecstasy. Beneath hisfeet he felt the velvet softness of the green moss of the woods. Abovehis head he saw a sky-like canopy of blue carrying fleecy clouds onwhich floated little pink-and-white children with wings, just as Davidhimself had so often wished that he could float. On all sides silkenhangings, like the green of swaying vines, half-hid other hangings offeathery, snowflake lace. Everywhere mirrored walls caught the lightand reflected the potted ferns and palms so that David looked downendless vistas of loveliness that seemed for all the world like thelong sunflecked aisles beneath the tall pines of his mountain home.

The music that David had heard at first had long since stopped; butDavid had not noticed that. He stood now in the center of the room,awed, and trembling, but enraptured. Then from somewhere came avoice—a voice so cold that it sounded as if it had swept across afield of ice.

"Well, boy, when you have quite finished your inspection, perhaps youwill tell me to what I am indebted for THIS visit," it said.

David turned abruptly.

"O Lady of the Roses, why didn't you tell me it was like this—inhere?" he breathed.

"Well, really," murmured the lady in the doorway, stiffly, "it had notoccurred to me that that was hardly—necessary."

"But it was!—don't you see? This is new, all new. I never saw anythinglike it before; and I do so love new things. It gives me something newto play; don't you understand?"

"New—to play?"

"Yes—on my violin," explained David, a little breathlessly, softlytesting his violin. "There's always something new in this, you know,"he hurried on, as he tightened one of the strings, "when there'sanything new outside. Now, listen! You see I don't know myself just howit's going to sound, and I'm always so anxious to find out." And with ajoyously rapt face he began to play.

"But, see here, boy,—you mustn't! You—" The words died on her lips;and, to her unbounded amazement, Miss Barbara Holbrook, who hadintended peremptorily to send this persistent little tramp boy abouthis business, found herself listening to a melody so compelling in itssonorous beauty that she was left almost speechless at its close. Itwas the boy who spoke.

"There, I told you my violin would know what to say!"

"'What to say'!—well, that's more than I do" laughed Miss Holbrook, alittle hysterically. "Boy, come here and tell me who you are." And sheled the way to a low divan that stood near a harp at the far end of theroom.

It was the same story, told as David had told it to Jack and Jill a fewdays before, only this time David's eyes were roving admiringly allabout the room, resting oftenest on the harp so near him.

"Did that make the music that I heard?" he asked eagerly, as soon asMiss Holbrook's questions gave him opportunity. "It's got strings."

"Yes. I was playing when you came in. I saw you enter the window.Really, David, are you in the habit of walking into people's houseslike this? It is most disconcerting—to their owners."

"Yes—no—well, sometimes." David's eyes were still on the harp. "Ladyof the Roses, won't you please play again—on that?"

"David, you are incorrigible! Why did you come into my house like this?"

"The music said 'come'; and the towers, too. You see, I KNOW thetowers."

"You KNOW them!"

"Yes. I can see them from so many places, and I always watch for them.They show best of anywhere, though, from Jack and Jill's. And now won'tyou play?"

Miss Holbrook had almost risen to her feet when she turned abruptly.

"From—where?" she asked.

"From Jack and Jill's—the House that Jack Built, you know."

"You mean—Mr. John Gurnsey's house?" A deeper color had come into MissHolbrook's cheeks.

"Yes. Over there at the top of the little hill across the brook, youknow. You can't see THEIR house from here, but from over there we cansee the towers finely, and the little window—Oh, Lady of the Roses,"he broke off excitedly, at the new thought that had come to him, "ifwe, now, were in that little window, we COULD see their house. Let's goup. Can't we?"

Explicit as this was, Miss Holbrook evidently did not hear, or at leastdid not understand, this request. She settled back on the divan,indeed, almost determinedly. Her cheeks were very red now.

"And do you know—this Mr. Jack?" she asked lightly.

"Yes, and Jill, too. Don't you? I like them, too. DO you know them?"

Again Miss Holbrook ignored the question put to her. "And did you walkinto their house, unannounced and uninvited, like this?" she queried.

"No. He asked me. You see he wanted to get off some of the dirt andblood before other folks saw me."

"The dirt and—and—why, David, what do you mean? What was
it—an accident?"

David frowned and reflected a moment.

"No. I did it on purpose. I HAD to, you see," he finally elucidated."But there were six of them, and I got the worst of it."

"David!" Miss Holbrook's voice was horrified. "You don't mean—a fight!"

"Yes'm. I wanted the cat—and I got it, but I wouldn't have if Mr. Jackhadn't come to help me."

"Oh! So Mr. Jack—fought, too?"

"Well, he pulled the others off, and of course that helped me,"explained David truthfully. "And then he took me home—he and Jill."

"Jill! Was she in it?"

"No, only her cat. They had tied a bag over its head and a tin can toits tail, and of course I couldn't let them do that. They were hurtingher. And now, Lady of the Roses, won't you please play?"

For a moment Miss Holbrook did not speak. She was gazing at David withan odd look in her eyes. At last she drew a long sigh.

"David, you are the—the LIMIT!" she breathed, as she rose and seatedherself at the harp.

David was manifestly delighted with her playing, and begged for morewhen she had finished; but Miss Holbrook shook her head. She seemed tohave grown suddenly restless, and she moved about the room callingDavid's attention to something new each moment. Then, very abruptly,she suggested that they go upstairs. From room to room she hurried theboy, scarcely listening to his ardent comments, or answering his stillmore ardent questions. Not until they reached the highest tower room,indeed, did she sink wearily into a chair, and seem for a moment atrest.

David looked about him in surprise. Even his untrained eye could seethat he had entered a different world. There were no sumptuous rugs, nosilken hangings; no mirrors, no snowflake curtains. There were books,to be sure, but besides those there were only a plain low table, awork-basket, and three or four wooden-seated though comfortable chairs.With increasing wonder he looked into Miss Holbrook's eyes.

"Is it here that you stay—all day?" he asked diffidently.

Miss Holbrook's face turned a vivid scarlet.

"Why, David, what a question! Of course not! Why should you think Idid?"

"Nothing; only I've been wondering all the time I've been here how youcould—with all those beautiful things around you downstairs—say whatyou did."

"Say what?—when?"

"That other day in the garden—about ALL your hours being cloudy ones.So I didn't know to-day but what you LIVED up here, same as Mrs. Hollydoesn't use her best rooms; and that was why your hours were all cloudyones."

With a sudden movement Miss Holbrook rose to her feet.

"Nonsense, David! You shouldn't always remember everything that peoplesay to you. Come, you haven't seen one of the views from the windowsyet. We are in the larger tower, you know. You can see Hinsdale villageon this side, and there's a fine view of the mountains over there. Ohyes, and from the other side there's your friend's house—Mr. Jack's.By the way, how is Mr. Jack these days?" Miss Holbrook stooped as sheasked the question and picked up a bit of thread from the rug.

David ran at once to the window that looked toward the House that JackBuilt. From the tower the little house appeared to be smaller thanever. It was in the shadow, too, and looked strangely alone andforlorn. Unconsciously, as he gazed at it, David compared it with themagnificence he had just seen. His voice choked as he answered.

"He isn't well, Lady of the Roses, and he's unhappy. He's awfullyunhappy."

Miss Holbrook's slender figure came up with a jerk.

"What do you mean, boy? How do you know he's unhappy? Has he said so?"

"No; but Mrs. Holly told me about him. He's sick; and he'd just foundhis work to do out in the world when he had to stop and come home.But—oh, quick, there he is! See?"

Instead of coming nearer Miss Holbrook fell back to the center of theroom; but her eyes were still turned toward the little house.

"Yes, I see," she murmured. The next instant she had snatched ahandkerchief from David's outstretched hand. "No—no—I wouldn't wave,"she remonstrated hurriedly. "Come—come downstairs with me."

"But I thought—I was sure he was looking this way," asserted David,turning reluctantly from the window. "And if he HAD seen me wave tohim, he'd have been so glad; now, wouldn't he?"

There was no answer. The Lady of the Roses did not apparently hear. Shehad gone on down the stairway.

CHAPTER XV

SECRETS

David had so much to tell Jack and Jill that he went to see them thevery next day after his second visit to Sunnycrest. He carried hisviolin with him. He found, however, only Jill at home. She was sittingon the veranda steps.

There was not so much embarrassment between them this time, perhapsbecause they were in the freedom of the wide out-of-doors, and Davidfelt more at ease. He was plainly disappointed, however, that Mr. Jackwas not there.

"But I wanted to see him! I wanted to see him 'specially," he lamented.

"You'd better stay, then. He'll be home by and by," comforted Jill."He's gone pot-boiling."

"Pot-boiling! What's that?"

Jill chuckled.

"Well, you see, really it's this way: he sells something to boil inother people's pots so he can have something to boil in ours, he says.It's stuff from the garden, you know. We raise it to sell. PoorJack—and he does hate it so!"

David nodded sympathetically.

"I know—and it must be awful, just hoeing and weeding all the time."

"Still, of course he knows he's got to do it, because it's out ofdoors, and he just has to be out of doors all he can," rejoined thegirl. "He's sick, you know, and sometimes he's so unhappy! He doesn'tsay much. Jack never says much—only with his face. But I know, andit—it just makes me want to cry."

At David's dismayed exclamation Jill jumped to her feet. It owned toher suddenly that she was telling this unknown boy altogether too manyof the family secrets. She proposed at once a race to the foot of thehill; and then, to drive David's mind still farther away from thesubject under recent consideration, she deliberately lost, andproclaimed him the victor.

Very soon, however, there arose new complications in the shape of alittle gate that led to a path which, in its turn, led to a footbridgeacross the narrow span of the little stream.

Above the trees on the other side peeped the top of Sunnycrest'shighest tower.

"To the Lady of the Roses!" cried David eagerly. "I know it goes there.Come, let's see!"

The little girl shook her head.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Jack won't let me."

"But it goes to a beautiful place; I was there yesterday," arguedDavid. "And I was up in the tower and almost waved to Mr. Jack on thepiazza back there. I saw him. And maybe she'd let you and me go upthere again to-day."

"But I can't, I say," repeated Jill, a little impatiently. "Jack won'tlet me even start."

"Why not? Maybe he doesn't know where it goes to."

Jill hung her head. Then she raised it defiantly.

"Oh, yes, he does, 'cause I told him. I used to go when I was littlerand he wasn't here. I went once, after he came,—halfway,—and he sawme and called to me. I had got halfway across the bridge, but I had tocome back. He was very angry, yet sort of—queer, too. His face was allstern and white, and his lips snapped tight shut after every word. Hesaid never, never, never to let him find me the other side of thatgate."

David frowned as they turned to go up the hill. Unhesitatingly hedetermined to instruct Mr. Jack in this little matter. He would tellhim what a beautiful place Sunnycrest was, and he would try to convincehim how very desirable it was that he and Jill, and even Mr. Jackhimself, should go across the bridge at the very first opportunity thatoffered.

Mr. Jack came home before long, but David quite forgot to speak of thefootbridge just then, chiefly because Mr. Jack got out his violin andasked David to come in and play a duet with him. The duet, however,soon became a solo, for so great was Mr. Jack's delight in David'splaying that he placed before the boy one sheet of music after another,begging and still begging for more.

David, nothing loath, played on and on. Most of the music he knew,having already learned it in his mountain home. Like old friends themelodies seemed, and so glad was David to see their notes again that hefinished each production with a little improvised cadenza of ecstaticwelcome—to Mr. Jack's increasing surprise and delight.

"Great Scott! you're a wonder, David," he exclaimed, at last.

"Pooh! as if that was anything wonderful," laughed the boy. "Why, Iknew those ages ago, Mr. Jack. It's only that I'm so glad to see themagain—the notes, you know. You see, I haven't any music now. It wasall in the bag (what we brought), and we left that on the way."

"You left it!"

"Yes, 't was so, heavy" murmured David abstractedly, his fingers busywith the pile of music before him. "Oh, and here's another one," hecried exultingly. "This is where the wind sighs, 'oou—OOU—OOU'through the pines. Listen!" And he was away again on the wings of hisviolin. When he had returned Mr. Jack drew a long breath.

"David, you are a wonder," he declared again. "And that violin of yoursis a wonder, too, if I'm not mistaken,—though I don't know enough totell whether it's really a rare one or not. Was it your father's?"

"Oh, no. He had one, too, and they both are good ones. Father said so.Joe's got father's now."

"Joe?"

"Joe Glaspell."

"You don't mean Widow Glaspell's Joe, the blind boy? I didn't know hecould play."

"He couldn't till I showed him. But he likes to hear me play. And heunderstood—right away, I mean."

"UNDERSTOOD!"

"What I was playing, you know. And he was almost the first one thatdid—since father went away. And now I play every time I go there. Joesays he never knew before how trees and grass and sunsets and sunrisesand birds and little brooks did look, till I told him with my violin.Now he says he thinks he can see them better than I can, because aslong as his OUTSIDE eyes can't see anything, they can't see those uglythings all around him, and so he can just make his INSIDE eyes see onlythe beautiful things that he'd LIKE to see. And that's the kind he doessee when I play. That's why I said he understood."

For a moment there was silence. In Mr. Jack's eyes there was an oddlook as they rested on David's face. Then, abruptly, he spoke.

"David, I wish I had money. I'd put you then where you belonged," hesighed.

"Do you mean—where I'd find my work to do?" asked the boy softly.

"Well—yes; you might say it that way," smiled the man, after amoment's hesitation—not yet was Mr. Jack quite used to this boy whowas at times so very un-boylike.

"Father told me 't was waiting for me—somewhere."

Mr. Jack frowned thoughtfully.

"And he was right, David. The only trouble is, we like to pick it outfor ourselves, pretty well,—too well, as we find out sometimes, whenwe're called off—for another job."

"I know, Mr. Jack, I know," breathed David. And the man, looking intothe glowing dark eyes, wondered at what he found there. It was almostas if the boy really understood about his own life'sdisappointment—and cared; though that, of course, could not be!

"And it's all the harder to keep ourselves in tune then, too, is n'tit?" went on David, a little wistfully.

"In tune?"

"With the rest of the Orchestra."

"Oh!" And Mr. Jack, who had already heard about the "Orchestra ofLife," smiled a bit sadly. "That's just it, my boy. And if we're handedanother instrument to play on than the one we WANT to play on, we'reapt to—to let fly a discord. Anyhow, I am. But"—he went on morelightly—"now, in your case, David, little as I know about the violin,I know enough to understand that you ought to be where you can take upyour study of it again; where you can hear good music, and where youcan be among those who know enough to appreciate what you do."

David's eyes sparkled.

"And where there wouldn't be any pulling weeds or hoeing dirt?"

"Well, I hadn't thought of including either of those pastimes."

"My, but I would like that, Mr. Jack!—but THAT wouldn't be WORK, sothat couldn't be what father meant." David's face fell.

"Hm-m; well, I wouldn't worry about the 'work' part," laughed Mr. Jack,"particularly as you aren't going to do it just now. There's the money,you know,—and we haven't got that."

"And it takes money?"

"Well—yes. You can't get those things here in Hinsdale, you know; andit takes money, to get away, and to live away after you get there."

A sudden light transfigured David's face.

"Mr. Jack, would gold do it?—lots of little round gold-pieces?"

"I think it would, David, if there were enough of them."

"Many as a hundred?"

"Sure—if they were big enough. Anyway, David, they'd start you, andI'm thinking you wouldn't need but a start before you'd be coininggold-pieces of your own out of that violin of yours. But why? Anybodyyou know got as 'many as a hundred' gold-pieces he wants to get rid of?"

For a moment David, his delighted thoughts flying to the gold-pieces inthe chimney cupboard of his room, was tempted to tell his secret. Thenhe remembered the woman with the bread and the pail of milk, anddecided not to. He would wait. When he knew Mr. Jack better—perhapsthen he would tell; but not now. NOW Mr. Jack might think he was athief, and that he could not bear. So he took up his violin and beganto play; and in the charm of the music Mr. Jack seemed to forget thegold-pieces—which was exactly what David had intended should happen.

Not until David had said good-bye some time later, did he remember thepurpose—the special purpose—for which he had come. He turned backwith a radiant face.

"Oh, and Mr. Jack, I 'most forgot," he cried. "I was going to tell you.I saw you yesterday—I did, and I almost waved to you."

"Did you? Where were you?"

"Over there in the window—the tower window" he crowed jubilantly.

"Oh, you went again, then, I suppose, to see Miss Holbrook."

The man's voice sounded so oddly cold and distant that David noticed itat once. He was reminded suddenly of the gate and the footbridge whichJill was forbidden to cross; but he dared not speak of it then—notwhen Mr. Jack looked like that. He did say, however:—

"Oh, but, Mr. Jack, it's such a beautiful place! You don't know what abeautiful place it is."

"Is it? Then, you like it so much?"

"Oh, so much! But—didn't you ever—see it?"

"Why, yes, I believe I did, David, long ago," murmured Mr. Jack
with what seemed to David amazing indifference.

"And did you see HER—my Lady of the Roses?"

"Why, y—yes—I believe so."

"And is THAT all you remember about it?" resented David, highlyoffended.

The man gave a laugh—a little short, hard laugh that David did notlike.

"But, let me see; you said you almost waved, didn't you? Why did n'tyou, quite?" asked the man.

David drew himself suddenly erect. Instinctively he felt that his Ladyof the Roses needed defense.

"Because SHE didn't want me to; so I didn't, of course," he rejoinedwith dignity. "She took away my handkerchief."

"I'll warrant she did," muttered the man, behind his teeth. Aloud heonly laughed again, as he turned away.

David went on down the steps, dissatisfied vaguely with himself, withMr. Jack, and even with the Lady of the Roses.

CHAPTER XVI

DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN

On his return from the House that Jack Built, David decided to counthis gold-pieces. He got them out at once from behind the books, andstacked them up in little shining rows. As he had surmised, there werea hundred of them. There were, indeed, a hundred and six. He waspleased at that. One hundred and six were surely enough to give him a"start."

A start! David closed his eyes and pictured it. To go on with hisviolin, to hear good music, to be with people who understood what hesaid when he played! That was what Mr. Jack had said a "start" was. Andthis gold—these round shining bits of gold—could bring him this!David swept the little piles into a jingling heap, and sprang to hisfeet with both fists full of his suddenly beloved wealth. With boyishglee he capered about the room, jingling the coins in his hands. Then,very soberly, he sat down again, and began to gather the gold to putaway.

He would be wise—he would be sensible. He would watch his chance, andwhen it came he would go away. First, however, he would tell Mr. Jackand Joe, and the Lady of the Roses; yes, and the Hollys, too. Just nowthere seemed to be work, real work that he could do to help Mr. Holly.But later, possibly when September came and school,—they had said hemust go to school,—he would tell them then, and go away instead. Hewould see. By that time they would believe him, perhaps, when he showedthe gold-pieces. They would not think he had—STOLEN them. It wasAugust now; he would wait. But meanwhile he could think—he couldalways be thinking of the wonderful thing that this gold was one day tobring to him.

Even work, to David, did not seem work now. In the morning he was torake hay behind the men with the cart. Yesterday he had not liked itvery well; but now—nothing mattered now. And with a satisfied sighDavid put his precious gold away again behind the books in the cupboard.

David found a new song in his violin the next morning. To be sure, hecould not play it—much of it—until four o'clock in the afternooncame; for Mr. Holly did not like violins to be played in the morning,even on days that were not especially the Lord's. There was too muchwork to do. So David could only snatch a strain or two very, verysoftly, while he was dressing; but that was enough to show him what abeautiful song it was going to be. He knew what it was, at once, too.It was the gold-pieces, and what they would bring. All through the dayit tripped through his consciousness, and danced tantalizingly just outof reach. Yet he was wonderfully happy, and the day seemed short inspite of the heat and the weariness.

At four o'clock he hurried home and put his violin quickly in tune. Itcame then—that dancing sprite of tantalization—and joyously abandoneditself to the strings of the violin, so that David knew, of a surety,what a beautiful song it was.

It was this song that sent him the next afternoon to see his Lady ofthe Roses. He found her this time out of doors in her garden.Unceremoniously, as usual, he rushed headlong into her presence.

"Oh, Lady—Lady of the Roses," he panted. "I've found out, and I camequickly to tell you."

"Why, David, what—what do you mean?" Miss Holbrook looked unmistakablystartled.

"About the hours, you know,—the unclouded ones," explained Davideagerly. "You know you said they were ALL cloudy to you."

Miss Holbrook's face grew very white.

"You mean—you've found out WHY my hours are—are all cloudy ones?" shestammered.

"No, oh, no. I can't imagine why they are," returned David, with anemphatic shake of his head. "It's just that I've found a way to makeall my hours sunny ones, and you can do it, too. So I came to tell you.You know you said yours were all cloudy."

"Oh," ejaculated Miss Holbrook, falling back into her old listlessattitude. Then, with some asperity: "Dear me, David! Did n't I tell younot to be remembering that all the time?"

"Yes, I know, but I've LEARNED something," urged the boy; "somethingthat you ought to know. You see, I did think, once, that because youhad all these beautiful things around you, the hours ought to be allsunny ones. But now I know it isn't what's around you; it's what is INyou!"

"Oh, David, David, you curious boy!"

"No, but really! Let me tell you," pleaded David. "You know I haven'tliked them,—all those hours till four o'clock came,—and I was soglad, after I saw the sundial, to find out that they didn't count,anyhow. But to-day they HAVE counted—they've all counted, Lady of theRoses; and it's just because there was something inside of me thatshone and shone, and made them all sunny—those hours."

"Dear me! And what was this wonderful thing?"

David smiled, but he shook his head.

"I can't tell you that yet—in words; but I'll play it. You see, Ican't always play them twice alike,—those little songs that Ifind,—but this one I can. It sang so long in my head, before my violinhad a chance to tell me what it really was, that I sort of learned it.Now, listen!" And he began to play.

It was, indeed, a beautiful song, and Miss Holbrook said so withpromptness and enthusiasm; yet still David frowned.

"Yes, yes," he answered, "but don't you see? That was telling you aboutsomething inside of me that made all my hours sunshiny ones. Now, whatyou want is something inside of you to make yours sunshiny, too. Don'tyou see?"

An odd look came into Miss Holbrook's eyes.

"That's all very well for you to say, David, but you haven't told meyet, you know, just what it is that's made all this brightness for you."

The boy changed his position, and puckered his forehead into a deeperfrown.

"I don't seem to explain so you can understand," he sighed. "It isn'tthe SPECIAL thing. It's only that it's SOMETHING. And it's thinkingabout it that does it. Now, mine wouldn't make yours shine,but—still,"—he broke off, a happy relief in his eyes,—"yours couldbe LIKE mine, in one way. Mine is something that is going to happen tome—something just beautiful; and you could have that, youknow,—something that was going to happen to you, to think about."

Miss Holbrook smiled, but only with her lips, Her eyes had grown somber.

"But there isn't anything 'just beautiful' going to happen to me,David," she demurred.

"There could, couldn't there?"

Miss Holbrook bit her lip; then she gave an odd little laugh thatseemed, in some way, to go with the swift red that had come to hercheeks.

"I used to think there could—once," she admitted; "but I've given thatup long ago. It—it didn't happen."

"But couldn't you just THINK it was going to?" persisted the boy. "Yousee I found out yesterday that it's the THINKING that does it. All daylong I was thinking—only thinking. I wasn't DOING it, at all. I wasreally raking behind the cart; but the hours all were sunny."

Miss Holbrook laughed now outright.

"What a persistent little mental-science preacher you are!" sheexclaimed. "And there's truth—more truth than you know—in it all,too. But I can't do it, David,—not that—not that. 'T would take morethan THINKING—to bring that," she added, under her breath, as if toherself.

"But thinking does bring things," maintained David earnestly. "There'sJoe—Joe Glaspell. His mother works out all day; and he's blind."

"Blind? Oh-h!" shuddered Miss Holbrook.

"Yes; and he has to stay all alone, except for Betty, and she is n'tthere much. He THINKS ALL his things. He has to. He can't SEE anythingwith his outside eyes. But he sees everything with his insideeyes—everything that I play. Why, Lady of the Roses, he's even seenthis—all this here. I told him about it, you know, right away afterI'd found you that first day: the big trees and the long shadows acrossthe grass, and the roses, and the shining water, and the lovely marblepeople peeping through the green leaves; and the sundial, and you sobeautiful sitting here in the middle of it all. Then I played it forhim; and he said he could see it all just as plain! And THAT was withhis inside eyes! And so, if Joe, shut up there in his dark little room,can make his THINK bring him all that, I should think that YOU, here inthis beautiful, beautiful place, could make your think bring youanything you wanted it to."

But Miss Holbrook sighed again and shook her head.

"Not that, David, not that," she murmured. "It would take more thanthinking to bring—that." Then, with a quick change of manner, shecried: "Come, come, suppose we don't worry any more about MY hours.Let's think of yours. Tell me, what have you been doing since I saw youlast? Perhaps you have been again to—to see Mr. Jack, for instance."

"I have; but I saw Jill mostly, till the last." David hesitated, thenhe blurted it out: "Lady of the Roses, do you know about the gate andthe footbridge?"

Miss Holbrook looked up quickly.

"Know—what, David?"

"Know about them—that they're there?"

"Why—yes, of course; at least, I suppose you mean the footbridge thatcrosses the little stream at the foot of the hill over there."

"That's the one." Again David hesitated, and again he blurted out theburden of his thoughts. "Lady of the Roses, did you ever—cross thatbridge?"

Miss Holbrook stirred uneasily.

"Not—recently."

"But you don't MIND folks crossing it?"

"Certainly not—if they wish to."

"There! I knew 't wasn't your blame," triumphed David.

"MY blame!"

"Yes; that Mr. Jack wouldn't let Jill come across, you know. He calledher back when she'd got halfway over once." Miss Holbrook's facechanged color.

"But I do object," she cried sharply, "to their crossing it when theyDON'T want to! Don't forget that, please."

"But Jill did want to."

"How about her brother—did he want her to?"

"N—no."

"Very well, then. I didn't, either."

David frowned. Never had he seen his beloved Lady of the Roses looklike this before. He was reminded of what Jill had said about Jack:"His face was all stern and white, and his lips snapped tight shutafter every word." So, too, looked Miss Holbrook's face; so, too, hadher lips snapped tight shut after her last words. David could notunderstand it. He said nothing more, however; but, as was usually thecase when he was perplexed, he picked up his violin and began to play.And as he played, there gradually came to Miss Holbrook's eyes a softerlight, and to her lips lines less tightly drawn. Neither the footbridgenor Mr. Jack, however, was mentioned again that afternoon.

CHAPTER XVII

"THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER"

It was in the early twilight that Mr. Jack told the story. He, Jill,and David were on the veranda, as usual watching the towers ofSunnycrest turn from gold to silver as the sun dropped behind thehills. It was Jill who had asked for the story.

"About fairies and princesses, you know," she had ordered.

"But how will David like that?" Mr. Jack had demurred. "Maybe hedoesn't care for fairies and princesses."

"I read one once about a prince—'t was 'The Prince and the Pauper,'and I liked that," averred David stoutly.

Mr. Jack smiled; then his brows drew together in a frown. His eyes weremoodily fixed on the towers.

"Hm-m; well," he said, "I might, I suppose, tell you a story about aPRINCESS and—a Pauper. I—know one well enough."

"Good!—then tell it," cried both Jill and David. And Mr. Jack beganhis story.

"She was not always a Princess, and he was not always a Pauper,—andthat's where the story came in, I suppose," sighed the man. "She wasjust a girl, once, and he was a boy; and they played togetherand—liked each other. He lived in a little house on a hill."

"Like this?" demanded Jill.

"Eh? Oh—er—yes, SOMETHING like this," returned Mr. Jack, with an oddhalf-smile. "And she lived in another bit of a house in a town far awayfrom the boy."

"Then how could they play together?" questioned David.

"They couldn't, ALWAYS. It was only summers when she came to visit inthe boy's town. She was very near him then, for the old aunt whom shevisited lived in a big stone house with towers, on another hill, inplain sight from the boy's home."

"Towers like those—where the Lady of the Roses lives?" asked David.

"Eh? What? Oh—er—yes," murmured Mr. Jack. "We'll say the towers weresomething like those over there." He paused, then went on musingly:"The girl used to signal, sometimes, from one of the tower windows. Onewave of the handkerchief meant, 'I'm coming, over'; two waves, with alittle pause between, meant, 'You are to come over here.' So the boyused to wait always, after that first wave to see if another followed;so that he might know whether he were to be host or guest that day. Thewaves always came at eight o'clock in the morning, and very eagerly theboy used to watch for them all through the summer when the girl wasthere."

"Did they always come, every morning?" Asked Jill.

"No; sometimes the girl had other things to do. Her aunt would want herto go somewhere with her, or other cousins were expected whom the girlmust entertain; and she knew the boy did not like other guests to bethere when he was, so she never asked him to come over at such times.On such occasions she did sometimes run up to the tower at eighto'clock and wave three times, and that meant, 'Dead Day.' So the boy,after all, never drew a real breath of relief until he made sure thatno dreaded third wave was to follow the one or the two."

"Seems to me," observed David, "that all this was sort of one-sided.Didn't the boy say anything?"

"Oh, yes," smiled Mr. Jack. "But the boy did not have any tower to wavefrom, you must remember. He had only the little piazza on his tiny bitof a house. But he rigged up a pole, and he asked his mother to makehim two little flags, a red and a blue one. The red meant 'All right';and the blue meant 'Got to work'; and these he used to run up on hispole in answer to her waving 'I'm coming over,' or 'You are to comeover here.' So, you see, occasionally it was the boy who had to bringthe 'Dead Day,' as there were times when he had to work. And, by theway, perhaps you would be interested to know that after a while hethought up a third flag to answer her three waves. He found an oldblack silk handkerchief of his father's, and he made that into a flag.He told the girl it meant 'I'm heartbroken,' and he said it was a signof the deepest mourning. The girl laughed and tipped her head saucilyto one side, and said, 'Pooh! as if you really cared!' But the boystoutly maintained his position, and it was that, perhaps, which madeher play the little joke one day.

"The boy was fourteen that summer, and the girl thirteen. They hadbegun their signals years before, but they had not had the black one solong. On this day that I tell you of, the girl waved three waves, whichmeant, 'Dead Day,' you remember, and watched until the boy had hoistedhis black flag which said, 'I'm heart-broken,' in response. Then, asfast as her mischievous little feet could carry her, she raced down onehill and across to the other. Very stealthily she advanced till shefound the boy bent over a puzzle on the back stoop, and—and he waswhistling merrily.

"How she teased him then! How she taunted him with 'Heart-broken,indeed—and whistling like that!' In vain he blushed and stammered, andprotested that his whistling was only to keep up his spirits. The girlonly laughed and tossed her yellow curls; then she hunted till shefound some little jingling bells, and these she tied to the black badgeof mourning and pulled it high up on the flagpole. The next instant shewas off with a run and a skip, and a saucy wave of her hand; and theboy was left all alone with an hour's work ahead of him to untie theknots from his desecrated badge of mourning.

"And yet they were wonderfully good friends—this boy and girl. Fromthe very first, when they were seven and eight, they had said that theywould marry each other when they grew up, and always they spoke of itas the expected thing, and laid many happy plans for the time when itshould come. To be sure, as they grew older, it was not mentioned quiteso often, perhaps; but the boy at least thought—if he thought of itall—that that was only because it was already so well understood."

"What did the girl think?" It was Jill who asked the question.

"Eh? The girl? Oh," answered Mr. Jack, a little bitterly, "I'm afraid Idon't know exactly what the girl did think, but—it was n't that,anyhow—that is, judging from what followed."

"What did follow?"

"Well, to begin with, the old aunt died. The girl was sixteen then. Itwas in the winter that this happened, and the girl was far away atschool. She came to the funeral, however, but the boy did not see her,save in the distance; and then he hardly knew her, so strange did shelook in her black dress and hat. She was there only two days, andthough he gazed wistfully up at the gray tower, he knew well enoughthat of course she could not wave to him at such a time as that. Yet hehad hoped—almost believed that she would wave two waves that last day,and let him go over to see her.

"But she didn't wave, and he didn't go over. She went away. And thenthe town learned a wonderful thing. The old lady, her aunt, who hadbeen considered just fairly rich, turned out to be the possessor ofalmost fabulous wealth, owing to her great holdings of stock in aWestern gold mine which had suddenly struck it rich. And to the girlshe willed it all. It was then, of course, that the girl became thePrincess, but the boy did not realize that—just then. To him she wasstill 'the girl.'

"For three years he did not see her. She was at school, or travelingabroad, he heard. He, too, had been away to school, and was, indeed,just ready to enter college. Then, that summer, he heard that she wascoming to the old home, and his heart sang within him. Remember, to himshe was still the girl. He knew, of course, that she was not the LITTLEgirl who had promised to marry him. But he was sure she was the merrycomrade, the true-hearted young girl who used to smile frankly into hiseyes, and whom he was now to win for his wife. You see he hadforgotten—quite forgotten about the Princess and the money. Such afoolish, foolish boy as he was!

"So he got out his flags gleefully, and one day, when his mother wasn'tin the kitchen, he ironed out the wrinkles and smoothed them all readyto be raised on the pole. He would be ready when the girl waved—for ofcourse she would wave; he would show her that he had not forgotten. Hecould see just how the sparkle would come to her eyes, and just how thelittle fine lines of mischief would crinkle around her nose when shewas ready to give that first wave. He could imagine that she would liketo find him napping; that she would like to take him by surprise, andmake him scurry around for his flags to answer her.

"But he would show her! As if she, a girl, were to beat him at theirold game! He wondered which it would be: 'I'm coming over,' or, 'Youare to come over here.' Whichever it was, he would answer, of course,with the red 'All right.' Still, it WOULD be a joke to run up the blue'Got to work,' and then slip across to see her, just as she, so longago, had played the joke on him! On the whole, however, he thought thered flag would be better. And it was that one which he laid uppermostready to his hand, when he arranged them.

"At last she came. He heard of it at once. It was already past fouro'clock, but he could not forbear, even then, to look toward the tower.It would be like her, after all, to wave then, that very night, just soas to catch him napping, he thought. She did not wave, however. The boywas sure of that, for he watched the tower till dark.

"In the morning, long before eight o'clock, the boy was ready. Hedebated for some time whether to stand out of doors on the piazza, orto hide behind the screened window, where he could still watch thetower. He decided at last that it would be better not to let her seehim when she looked toward the house; then his triumph would be all themore complete when he dashed out to run up his answer.

"Eight o'clock came and passed. The boy waited until nine, but therewas no sign of life from the tower. The boy was angry then, at himself.He called himself, indeed, a fool, to hide as he did. Of course shewouldn't wave when he was nowhere in sight—when he had apparentlyforgotten! And here was a whole precious day wasted!

"The next morning, long before eight, the boy stood in plain sight onthe piazza. As before he waited until nine; and as before there was nosign of life at the tower window. The next morning he was there again,and the next, and the next. It took just five days, indeed, to convincethe boy—as he was convinced at last—that the girl did not intend towave at all."

"But how unkind of her!" exclaimed David.

"She couldn't have been nice one bit!" decided Jill.

"You forget," said Mr. Jack. "She was the Princess."

"Huh!" grunted Jill and David in unison.

"The boy remembered it then," went on Mr. Jack, after a pause,—"aboutthe money, and that she was a Princess. And of course he knew—when hethought of it—that he could not expect that a Princess would wave likea girl—just a girl. Besides, very likely she did not care particularlyabout seeing him. Princesses did forget, he fancied,—they had so much,so very much to fill their lives. It was this thought that kept himfrom going to see her—this, and the recollection that, after all, ifshe really HAD wanted to see him, she could have waved.

"There came a day, however, when another youth, who did not dare to goalone, persuaded him, and together they paid her a call. The boyunderstood, then, many things. He found the Princess; there was no signof the girl. The Princess was tall and dignified, with a cold littlehand and a smooth, sweet voice. There was no frank smile in her eyes,neither were there any mischievous crinkles about her nose and lips.There was no mention of towers or flags; no reference to wavings or tochildhood's days. There was only a stiffly polite little conversationabout colleges and travels, with a word or two about books and plays.Then the callers went home. On the way the boy smiled scornfully tohimself. He was trying to picture the beauteous vision he had seen,this unapproachable Princess in her filmy lace gown,—standing in thetower window and waving—waving to a bit of a house on the oppositehill. As if that could happen!

"The boy, during those last three years, had known only books. He knewlittle of girls—only one girl—and he knew still less of Princesses.So when, three days after the call, there came a chance to join asummer camp with a man who loved books even better than did the boyhimself, he went gladly. Once he had refused to go on this very trip;but then there had been the girl. Now there was only the Princess—andthe Princess didn't count."

"Like the hours that aren't sunshiny," interpreted David.

"Yes," corroborated Mr. Jack. "Like the hours when the sun does n'tshine."

"And then?" prompted Jill.

"Well, then,—there wasn't much worth telling," rejoined Mr. Jackgloomily. "Two more years passed, and the Princess grew to betwenty-one. She came into full control of her property then, and aftera while she came back to the old stone house with the towers and turnedit into a fairyland of beauty. She spent money like water. All mannerof artists, from the man who painted her ceilings to the man whoplanted her seeds, came and bowed to her will. From the four corners ofthe earth she brought her treasures and lavished them through the houseand grounds. Then, every summer, she came herself, and lived amongthem, a very Princess indeed."

"And the boy?—what became of the boy?" demanded David. "Didn't he seeher—ever?"

Mr. Jack shook his head.

"Not often, David; and when he did, it did not make him any—happier.You see, the boy had become the Pauper; you must n't forget that."

"But he wasn't a Pauper when you left him last."

"Wasn't he? Well, then, I'll tell you about that. You see, the boy,even though he did go away, soon found out that in his heart thePrincess was still the girl, just the same. He loved her, and he wantedher to be his wife; so for a little—for a very little—he was wildenough to think that he might work and study and do great things in theworld until he was even a Prince himself, and then he could marry thePrincess."

"Well, couldn't he?"

"No. To begin with, he lost his health. Then, away back in the littlehouse on the hill something happened—a something that left a veryprecious charge for him to keep; and he had to go back and keep it, andto try to see if he couldn't find that lost health, as well. And thatis all."

"All! You don't mean that that is the end!" exclaimed Jill.

"That's the end."

"But that isn't a mite of a nice end," complained David. "They alwaysget married and live happy ever after—in stories."

"Do they?" Mr. Jack smiled a little sadly. "Perhaps they do, David,—instories."

"Well, can't they in this one?"

"I don't see how."

"Why can't he go to her and ask her to marry him?"

Mr. Jack drew himself up proudly.

"The Pauper and the Princess? Never! Paupers don't go to Princesses,David, and say, 'I love you.'"

David frowned.

"Why not? I don't see why—if they want to do it. Seems as if somehowit might be fixed."

"It can't be," returned Mr. Jack, his gaze on the towers that crownedthe opposite hill; "not so long as always before the Pauper's eyesthere are those gray walls behind which he pictures the Princess in themidst of her golden luxury."

To neither David nor Jill did the change to the present tense seemstrange. The story was much too real to them for that.

"Well, anyhow, I think it ought to be fixed," declared David, as herose to his feet.

"So do I—but we can't fix it," laughed Jill. "And I'm hungry. Let'ssee what there is to eat!"

CHAPTER XVIII

DAVID TO THE RESCUE

It was a beautiful moonlight night, but for once David was not thinkingof the moon. All the way to the Holly farmhouse he was thinking of Mr.Jack's story, "The Princess and the Pauper." It held him strangely. Hefelt that he never could forget it. For some reason that he could nothave explained, it made him sad, too, and his step was very quiet as hewent up the walk toward the kitchen door.

It was after eight o'clock. David had taken supper with Mr. Jack andJill, and not for some hours had he been at the farmhouse. In thedoorway now he stopped short; then instinctively he stepped back intothe shadow. In the kitchen a kerosene light was burning. It showed Mrs.Holly crying at the table, and Mr. Holly, white-faced and stern-lipped,staring at nothing. Then Mrs. Holly raised her face, drawn andtear-stained, and asked a trembling question.

"Simeon, have you thought? We might go—to John—for—help."

David was frightened then, so angry was the look that came into SimeonHolly's face.

"Ellen, we'll have no more of this," said the man harshly. "Understand,I'd rather lose the whole thing and—and starve, than go to—John."

David fled then. Up the back stairs he crept to his room and left hisviolin. A moment later he stole down again and sought Perry Larson whomhe had seen smoking in the barn doorway.

"Perry, what is it?" he asked in a trembling voice. "What hashappened—in there?" He pointed toward the house.

The man puffed for a moment in silence before he took his pipe from hismouth.

"Well, sonny, I s'pose I may as well tell ye. You'll have ter know itsometime, seein' as 't won't be no secret long. They've had a stroke o'bad luck—Mr. an' Mis' Holly has."

"What is it?"

The man hitched in his seat.

"By sugar, boy, I s'pose if I tell ye, there ain't no sartinty thatyou'll sense it at all. I reckon it ain't in your class."

"But what is it?"

"Well, it's money—and one might as well talk moonshine to you asmoney, I s'pose; but here goes it. It's a thousand dollars, boy, thatthey owed. Here, like this," he explained, rummaging his pockets untilhe had found a silver dollar to lay on his open palm. "Now, jestimagine a thousand of them; that's heaps an' heaps—more 'n I ever seein my life."

"Like the stars?" guessed David.

The man nodded.

"Ex-ACTLY! Well, they owed this—Mr. an' Mis' Holly did—and they hadagreed ter pay it next Sat'day. And they was all right, too. They hadit plum saved in the bank, an' was goin' ter draw it Thursday, ter makesure. An' they was feelin' mighty pert over it, too, when ter-day alongcomes the news that somethin's broke kersmash in that bank, an' they'veshet it up. An' nary a cent can the Hollys git now—an' maybe never.Anyhow, not 'fore it's too late for this job."

"But won't he wait?—that man they owe it to? I should think he'd haveto, if they didn't have it to pay."

"Not much he will, when it's old Streeter that's got the mortgage on agood fat farm like this!"

David drew his brows together perplexedly.

"What is a—a mortgage?" he asked. "Is it anything like aporte-cochere? I KNOW what that is, 'cause my Lady of the Roses hasone; but we haven't got that—down here."

Perry Larson sighed in exasperation.

"Gosh, if that ain't 'bout what I expected of ye! No, it ain't evensecond cousin to a—a-that thing you're a-talkin' of. In plain wordin',it's jest this: Mr. Holly, he says ter Streeter: 'You give me athousand dollars and I'll pay ye back on a sartin day; if I don't pay,you can sell my farm fur what it'll bring, an' TAKE yer pay. Well, nowhere 't is. Mr. Holly can't pay, an' so Streeter will put up the farmfur sale."

"What, with Mr. and Mrs. Holly LIVING here?"

"Sure! Only they'll have ter git out, ye know."

"Where'll they go?"

"The Lord knows; I don't."

"And is THAT what they're crying for—in there?—because they've got togo?"

"Sure!"

"But isn't there anything, anywhere, that can be done to—stop it?"

"I don't see how, kid,—not unless some one ponies up with the money'fore next Sat'day,—an' a thousand o' them things don't grow on ev'rybush," he finished, gently patting the coin in his hand.

At the words a swift change came to David's face. His cheeks paled andhis eyes dilated in terror. It was as if ahead of him he saw a yawningabyss, eager to engulf him.

"And you say—MONEY would—fix it?" he asked thickly.

"Ex-ACT-ly!—a thousand o' them, though, 't would take."

A dawning relief came into David's eyes—it was as if he saw a bridgeacross the abyss.

"You mean—that there wouldn't ANYTHING do, only silver pieces—likethose?" he questioned hopefully.

"Sugar, kid, 'course there would! Gosh, but you BE a checkerboard o'sense an' nonsense, an' no mistake! Any money would do the job—anymoney! Don't ye see? Anything that's money."

"Would g-gold do it?" David's voice was very faint now.

"Sure!—gold, or silver, or greenbacks, or—or a check, if it had thedough behind it."

David did not appear to hear the last. With an oddly strained look hehad hung upon the man's first words; but at the end of the sentence heonly murmured, "Oh, thank you," and turned away. He was walking slowlynow toward the house. His head was bowed. His step lagged.

"Now, ain't that jest like that chap," muttered the man, "ter slink offlike that as if he was a whipped cur. I'll bet two cents an' adoughnut, too, that in five minutes he'll be what he calls 'playin' it'on that 'ere fiddle o' his. An' I'll be derned, too, if I ain't curiouster see what he WILL make of it. It strikes me this ought ter fetchsomethin' first cousin to a dirge!"

On the porch steps David paused a breathless instant. From the kitchencame the sound of Mrs. Holly's sobs and of a stern voice praying. Witha shudder and a little choking cry the boy turned then and crept softlyupstairs to his room.

He played, too, as Perry Larson had wagered. But it was not the tragedyof the closed bank, nor the honor of the threatened farm-selling thatfell from his violin. It was, instead, the swan song of a little pileof gold—gold which lay now in a chimney cupboard, but which was soonto be placed at the feet of the mourning man and woman downstairs. Andin the song was the sob of a boy who sees his house of dreams burn toashes; who sees his wonderful life and work out in the wide world turnto endless days of weed-pulling and dirt-digging in a narrow valley.There was in the song, too, something of the struggle, the fierce yeaand nay of the conflict. But, at the end, there was the wild burst ofexaltation of renunciation, so that the man in the barn door belowfairly sprang to his feet with an angry:—

"Gosh! if he hain't turned the thing into a jig—durn him! Don't heknow more'n that at such a time as this?"

Later, a very little later, the shadowy figure of the boy stood beforehim.

"I've been thinking," stammered David, "that maybe I—could help, aboutthat money, you know."

"Now, look a-here, boy," exploded Perry, in open exasperation, "as Isaid in the first place, this ain't in your class. 'T ain't no pinkcloud sailin' in the sky, nor a bluebird singin' in a blackb'rry bush.An' you might 'play it'—as you call it—till doomsday, an' 't wouldn'tdo no good—though I'm free ter confess that your playin' of them 'ereother things sounds real pert an' chirky at times; but 't won't do nogood here."

David stepped forward, bringing his small, anxious face full into themoonlight.

"But 't was the money, Perry; I meant about, the money," he explained."They were good to me and wanted me when there wasn't any one else thatdid; and now I'd like to do something for them. There aren't so MANYpieces, and they aren't silver. There's only one hundred and six ofthem; I counted. But maybe they 'd help some. It—it would bea—start." His voice broke over the once beloved word, then went onwith renewed strength. "There, see! Would these do?" And with bothhands he held up to view his cap sagging under its weight of gold.

Perry Larson's jaw fell open. His eyes bulged. Dazedly he reached outand touched with trembling fingers the heap of shining disks thatseemed in the mellow light like little earth-born children of the moonitself. The next instant he recoiled sharply.

"Great snakes, boy, where'd you git that money?" he demanded.

"Of father. He went to the far country, you know."

Perry Larson snorted angrily.

"See here, boy, for once, if ye can, talk horse-sense! Surely, even YOUdon't expect me ter believe that he's sent you that money from—fromwhere he's gone to!"

"Oh, no. He left it."

"Left it! Why, boy, you know better! There wa'n't a cent—hardly—foundon him."

"He gave it to me before—by the roadside."

"Gave it to you! Where in the name of goodness has it been since?"

"In the little cupboard in my room, behind the books."

"Great snakes!" muttered Perry Larson, reaching out his hand andgingerly picking up one of the gold-pieces.

David eyed him anxiously.

"Won't they—do?" he faltered. "There aren't a thousand; there's only ahundred and six; but—"

"Do!" cut in the man, excitedly. He had been examining the gold-pieceat close range. "Do! Well, I reckon they'll do. By Jiminy!—and terthink you've had this up yer sleeve all this time! Well, I'll believeanythin' of yer now—anythin'! You can't stump me with nuthin'! Comeon." And he hurriedly led the way toward the house.

"But they weren't up my sleeve," corrected David, as he tried to keepup with the long strides of the man. "I SAID they were in the cupboardin my room."

There was no answer. Larson had reached the porch steps, and had pausedthere hesitatingly. From the kitchen still came the sound of sobs.Aside from that there was silence. The boy, however, did not hesitate.He went straight up the steps and through the open kitchen door. At thetable sat the man and the woman, their eyes covered with their hands.

With a swift overturning of his cap, David dumped his burden onto thetable, and stepped back respectfully.

"If you please, sir, would this—help any?" he asked.

At the jingle of the coins Simeon Holly and his wife lifted their headsabruptly. A half-uttered sob died on the woman's lips. A quick cry camefrom the man's. He reached forth an eager hand and had almost clutchedthe gold when a sudden change came to his face. With a sternejaculation he drew back.

"Boy, where did that money come from?" he challenged.

David sighed in a discouraged way. It seemed that, always, the showingof this gold mean't questioning—eternal questioning.

"Surely," continued Simeon Holly, "you did not—" With the boy's frankgaze upturned to his, the man could not finish his sentence.

Before David could answer came the voice of Perry Larson from thekitchen doorway.

"No, sir, he didn't, Mr. Holly; an' it's all straight, I'mthinkin'—though I'm free ter confess it does sound nutty. His dad giveit to him."

"His—father! But where—where has it been ever since?"

"In the chimney cupboard in his room, he says, sir."

Simeon Holly turned in frowning amazement.

"David, what does this mean? Why have you kept this gold in a placelike that?"

"Why, there wasn't anything else to do with it," answered the boyperplexedly. "I hadn't any use for it, you know, and father said tokeep it till I needed it."

"'Hadn't any use for it'!" blustered Larson from the doorway. "Jiminy!Now, ain't that jest like that boy?"

But David hurried on with his explanation.

"We never used to use them—father and I—except to buy things to eatand wear; and down here YOU give me those, you know."

"Gorry!" interjected Perry Larson. "Do you reckon, boy, that Mr. Hollyhimself was give them things he gives ter you?"

The boy turned sharply, a startled question in his eyes.

"What do you mean? Do you mean that—" His face changed suddenly. Hischeeks turned a shamed red. "Why, he did—he did have to buy them, ofcourse, just as father did. And I never even thought of it before!Then, it's yours, anyway—it belongs to you," he argued, turning toFarmer Holly, and shoving the gold nearer to his hands. "There isn'tenough, maybe—but 't will help!"

"They're ten-dollar gold pieces, sir," spoke up Larson importantly;"an' there's a hundred an' six of them. That's jest one thousand an'sixty dollars, as I make it."

Simeon Holly, self-controlled man that he was, almost leaped from hischair.

"One thousand and sixty dollars!" he gasped. Then, to David: "Boy, inHeaven's name, who are you?"

"I don't know—only David." The boy spoke wearily, with a grieved sobin his voice. He was very tired, a good deal perplexed, and a littleangry. He wished, if no one wanted this gold, that he could take itupstairs again to the chimney cupboard; or, if they objected to that,that they would at least give it to him, and let him go away now tothat beautiful music he was to hear, and to those kind people who werealways to understand what he said when he played.

"Of course," ventured Perry Larson diffidently, "I ain't professin' terknow any great shakes about the hand of the Lord, Mr. Holly, but it dostrike me that this 'ere gold comes mighty near bein'proverdential—fur you."

Simeon Holly fell back in his seat. His eyes clung to the gold, but hislips set into rigid lines.

"That money is the boy's, Larson. It isn't mine," he said.

"He's give it to ye."

Simeon Holly shook his head.

"David is nothing but a child, Perry. He doesn't realize at all what heis doing, nor how valuable his gift is."

"I know, sir, but you DID take him in, when there wouldn't nobody elsedo it," argued Larson. "An', anyhow, couldn't you make a kind of an I OU of it, even if he is a kid? Then, some day you could pay him back.Meanwhile you'd be a-keepin' him, an' a-schoolin' him; an' that'ssomethin'."

"I know, I know," nodded Simeon Holly thoughtfully, his eyes going fromthe gold to David's face. Then, aloud, yet as if to himself, hebreathed: "Boy, boy, who was your father? How came he by all thatgold—and he—a tramp!"

David drew himself suddenly erect. His eyes flashed.

"I don't know, sir. But I do know this: he didn't STEAL it!"

Across the table Mrs. Holly drew a quick breath, but she did notspeak—save with her pleading eyes. Mrs. Holly seldom spoke—save withher eyes—when her husband was solving a knotty problem. She wasdumfounded now that he should listen so patiently to the man,Larson,—though she was not more surprised than was Larson himself. Forboth of them, however, there came at this moment a still greatersurprise. Simeon Holly leaned forward suddenly, the stern lines quitegone from his lips, and his face working with emotion as he drew Davidtoward him.

"You're a good son, boy,—a good loyal son; and—and I wish you weremine! I believe you. He didn't steal it, and I won't steal it, either.But I will use it, since you are so good as to offer it. But it shallbe a loan, David, and some day, God helping me, you shall have it back.Meanwhile, you're my boy, David,—my boy!"

"Oh, thank you, sir," rejoiced David. "And, really, you know, beingwanted like that is better than the start would be, isn't it?"

"Better than—what?"

David shifted his position. He had not meant to say just that.

"N—nothing," he stammered, looking about for a means of quick escape."I—I was just talking," he finished. And he was immeasurably relievedto find that Mr. Holly did not press the matter further.

CHAPTER XIX

THE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD

In spite of the exaltation of renunciation, and in spite of the joy ofbeing newly and especially "wanted," those early September days weresometimes hard for David. Not until he had relinquished all hope of his"start" did he fully realize what that hope had meant to him.

There were times, to be sure, when there was nothing but rejoicingwithin him that he was able thus to aid the Hollys. There were othertimes when there was nothing but the sore heartache because of thegreat work out in the beautiful world that could now never be done; andbecause of the unlovely work at hand that must be done. To tell thetruth, indeed, David's entire conception of life had become suddenly achaos of puzzling contradictions.

To Mr. Jack, one day, David went with his perplexities. Not that hetold him of the gold-pieces and of the unexpected use to which they hadbeen put—indeed, no. David had made up his mind never, if he couldhelp himself, to mention those gold-pieces to any one who did notalready know of them. They meant questions, and the questions,explanations. And he had had enough of both on that particular subject.But to Mr. Jack he said one day, when they were alone together:—

"Mr. Jack, how many folks have you got inside of your head?"

"Eh—what, David?"

David repeated his question and attached an explanation.

"I mean, the folks that—that make you do things."

Mr. Jack laughed.

"Well," he said, "I believe some people make claims to quite a number,and perhaps almost every one owns to a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde."

"Who are they?"

"Never mind, David. I don't think you know the gentlemen, anyhow.They're only something like the little girl with a curl. One is very,very good, indeed, and the other is horrid."

"Oh, yes, I know them; they're the ones that come to me," returnedDavid, with a sigh. "I've had them a lot, lately."

Mr. Jack stared.

"Oh, have you?"

"Yes; and that's what's the trouble. How can you drive them off—theone that is bad, I mean?"

"Well, really," confessed Mr. Jack, "I'm not sure I can tell. Yousee—the gentlemen visit me sometimes."

"Oh, do they?"

"Yes."

"I'm so glad—that is, I mean," amended David, in answer to Mr. Jack'suplifted eyebrows, "I'm glad that you understand what I'm talkingabout. You see, I tried Perry Larson last night on it, to get him totell me what to do. But he only stared and laughed. He didn't know thenames of 'em, anyhow, as you do, and at last he got really almost angryand said I made him feel so 'buggy' and 'creepy' that he wouldn't darelook at himself in the glass if I kept on, for fear some one he'd neverknown was there should jump out at him."

Mr. Jack chuckled.

"Well, I suspect, David, that Perry knew one of your gentlemen by thename of 'conscience,' perhaps; and I also suspect that maybe consciencedoes pretty nearly fill the bill, and that you've been having a boutwith that. Eh? Now, what is the trouble? Tell me about it."

David stirred uneasily. Instead of answering, he asked another question.

"Mr. Jack, it is a beautiful world, isn't it?"

For a moment there was no answer; then a low voice replied:—

"Your father said it was, David."

Again David moved restlessly.

"Yes; but father was on the mountain. And down here—well, down herethere are lots of things that I don't believe he knew about."

"What, for instance?"

"Why, lots of things—too many to tell. Of course there are things likecatching fish, and killing birds and squirrels and other things to eat,and plaguing cats and dogs. Father never would have called thosebeautiful. Then there are others like little Jimmy Clark who can'twalk, and the man at the Marstons' who's sick, and Joe Glaspell who isblind. Then there are still different ones like Mr. Holly's little boy.Perry says he ran away years and years ago, and made his people veryunhappy. Father wouldn't call that a beautiful world, would he? And howcan people like that always play in tune? And there are the Princessand the Pauper that you told about."

"Oh, the story?"

"Yes; and people like them can't be happy and think the world isbeautiful, of course."

"Why not?"

"Because they didn't end right. They didn't get married and live happyever after, you know."

"Well, I don't think I'd worry about that, David,—at least, not aboutthe Princess. I fancy the world was very beautiful to her, all right.The Pauper—well, perhaps he wasn't very happy. But, after all, David,you know happiness is something inside of yourself. Perhaps half ofthese people are happy, in their way."

"There! and that's another thing," sighed David. "You see, I found thatout—that it was inside of yourself—quite a while ago, and I told theLady of the Roses. But now I—can't make it work myself."

"What's the matter?"

"Well, you see then something was going to happen—something that Iliked; and I found that just thinking of it made it so that I didn'tmind raking or hoeing, or anything like that; and I told the Lady ofthe Roses. And I told her that even if it wasn't going to happen shecould THINK it was going to, and that that would be just the same,because 't was the thinking that made my hours sunny ones. It wasn'tthe DOING at all. I said I knew because I hadn't DONE it yet. See?"

"I—think so, David."

"Well, I've found out that it isn't the same at all; for now that IKNOW that this beautiful thing isn't ever going to happen to me, I canthink and think all day, and it doesn't do a mite of good. The sun isjust as hot, and my back aches just as hard, and the field is just asbig and endless as it used to be when I had to call it that those hoursdidn't count. Now, what is the matter?"

Mr. Jack laughed, but he shook his head a little sadly.

"You're getting into too deep waters for me, David. I suspect you'refloundering in a sea that has upset the boats of sages since the worldbegan. But what is it that was so nice, and that isn't going to happen?Perhaps I MIGHT help on that."

"No, you couldn't," frowned David; "and there couldn't anybody, either,you see, because I wouldn't go back now and LET it happen, anyhow, aslong as I know what I do. Why, if I did, there wouldn't be ANY hoursthat were sunny then—not even the ones after four o'clock; I—I'd feelso mean! But what I don't see is just how I can fix it up with the Ladyof the Roses."

"What has she to do with it?"

"Why, at the very first, when she said she didn't have ANY sunshinyhours, I told her—"

"When she said what?" interposed Mr. Jack, coming suddenly erect in hischair.

"That she didn't have any hours to count, you know."

"To—COUNT?"

"Yes; it was the sundial. Didn't I tell you? Yes, I know I did—aboutthe words on it—not counting any hours that weren't sunny, you know.And she said she wouldn't have ANY hours to count; that the sun nevershone for her."

"Why, David," demurred Mr. Jack in a voice that shook a little, "areyou sure? Did she say just that? You—you must be mistaken—when shehas—has everything to make her happy."

"I wasn't, because I said that same thing to her myself—afterwards.And then I told her—when I found out myself, you know—about its beingwhat was inside of you, after all, that counted; and then is when Iasked her if she couldn't think of something nice that was going tohappen to her sometime."

"Well, what did she say?"

"She shook her head, and said 'No.' Then she looked away, and her eyesgot soft and dark like little pools in the brook where the water stopsto rest. And she said she had hoped once that this something wouldhappen; but that it hadn't, and that it would take something more thanthinking to bring it. And I know now what she meant, because thinkingisn't all that counts, is it?"

Mr. Jack did not answer. He had risen to his feet, and was pacingrestlessly up and down the veranda. Once or twice he turned his eyestoward the towers of Sunnycrest, and David noticed that there was a newlook on his face.

Very soon, however, the old tiredness came back to his eyes, and hedropped into his seat again, muttering "Fool! of course it couldn'tbe—that!"

"Be what?" asked David.

Mr. Jack started.

"Er—nothing; nothing that you would understand, David. Go on—withwhat you were saying."

"There isn't any more. It's all done. It's only that I'm wondering howI'm going to learn here that it's a beautiful world, so that Ican—tell father."

Mr. Jack roused himself. He had the air of a man who determinedlythrows to one side a heavy burden.

"Well, David," he smiled, "as I said before, you are still out on thatsea where there are so many little upturned boats. There might be agood many ways of answering that question."

"Mr. Holly says," mused the boy, aloud, a little gloomily, "that itdoesn't make any difference whether we find things beautiful or not;that we're here to do something serious in the world."

"That is about what I should have expected of Mr. Holly" retorted Mr.Jack grimly. "He acts it—and looks it. But—I don't believe you aregoing to tell your father just that."

"No, sir, I don't believe I am," accorded David soberly.

"I have an idea that you're going to find that answer just where yourfather said you would—in your violin. See if you don't. Things thataren't beautiful you'll make beautiful—because we find what we arelooking for, and you're looking for beautiful things. After all, boy,if we march straight ahead, chin up, and sing our own little song withall our might and main, we shan't come so far amiss from the goal, I'mthinking. There! that's preaching, and I didn't mean to preach;but—well, to tell the truth, that was meant for myself, for—I'mhunting for the beautiful world, too."

"Yes, sir, I know," returned David fervently. And again Mr. Jack,looking into the sympathetic, glowing dark eyes, wondered if, afterall, David really could—know.

Even yet Mr. Jack was not used to David; there were "so many of him,"he told himself. There were the boy, the artist, and a thirdpersonality so evanescent that it defied being named. The boy wasjolly, impetuous, confidential, and delightful—plainly reveling in allmanner of fun and frolic. The artist was nothing but a bunch of nervousalertness, ready to find melody and rhythm in every passing thought orflying cloud. The third—that baffling third that defied thenaming—was a dreamy, visionary, untouchable creature who floated sofar above one's head that one's hand could never pull him down to get agood square chance to see what he did look like. All this thought Mr.Jack as he gazed into David's luminous eyes.

CHAPTER XX

THE UNFAMILIAR WAY

In September David entered the village school. School and David did notassimilate at once. Very confidently the teacher set to work to gradeher new pupil; but she was not so confident when she found that whilein Latin he was perilously near herself (and in French—which she wasnot required to teach—disastrously beyond her!), in United Stateshistory he knew only the barest outlines of certain portions, and couldnot name a single battle in any of its wars. In most studies he was farbeyond boys of his own age, yet at every turn she encountered thesepuzzling spots of discrepancy, which rendered grading in the ordinaryway out of the question.

David's methods of recitation, too, were peculiar, and somewhatdisconcerting. He also did not hesitate to speak aloud when he chose,nor to rise from his seat and move to any part of the room as the whimseized him. In time, of course, all this was changed; but it wasseveral days before the boy learned so to conduct himself that he didnot shatter to atoms the peace and propriety of the schoolroom.

Outside of school David had little work to do now, though there werestill left a few light tasks about the house. Home life at the Hollyfarmhouse was the same for David, yet with a difference—the differencethat comes from being really wanted instead of being merely dutifullykept. There were other differences, too, subtle differences that didnot show, perhaps, but that still were there.

Mr. and Mrs. Holly, more than ever now, were learning to look at theworld through David's eyes. One day—one wonderful day—they even wentto walk in the woods with the boy; and whenever before had Simeon Hollyleft his work for so frivolous a thing as a walk in the woods!

It was not accomplished, however, without a struggle, as David couldhave told. The day was a Saturday, clear, crisp, and beautiful, with apromise of October in the air; and David fairly tingled to be free andaway. Mrs. Holly was baking—and the birds sang unheard outside herpantry window. Mr. Holly was digging potatoes—and the clouds sailedunnoticed above his head.

All the morning David urged and begged. If for once, just this once,they would leave everything and come, they would not regret it, he wassure. But they shook their heads and said, "No, no, impossible!" In theafternoon the pies were done and the potatoes dug, and David urged andpleaded again. If once, only this once, they would go to walk with himin the woods, he would be so happy, so very happy! And to please theboy—they went.

It was a curious walk. Ellen Holly trod softly, with timid feet. Shethrew hurried, frightened glances from side to side. It was plain thatEllen Holly did not know how to play. Simeon Holly stalked at herelbow, stern, silent, and preoccupied. It was plain that Simeon Hollynot only did not know how to play, but did not even care to find out.

The boy tripped ahead and talked. He had the air of a monarchdisplaying his kingdom. On one side was a bit of moss worthy of theclosest attention; on another, a vine that carried allurement in everytendril. Here was a flower that was like a story for interest, andthere was a bush that bore a secret worth the telling. Even SimeonHolly glowed into a semblance of life when David had unerringly pickedout and called by name the spruce, and fir, and pine, and larch, andthen, in answer to Mrs. Holly's murmured: "But, David, where's thedifference? They look so much alike!" he had said:—

"Oh, but they aren't, you know. Just see how much more pointed at thetop that fir is than that spruce back there; and the branches growstraight out, too, like arms, and they're all smooth and tapering atthe ends like a pussy-cat's tail. But the spruce back there—ITSbranches turned down and out—didn't you notice?—and they're all bushyat the ends like a squirrel's tail. Oh, they're lots different! That'sa larch 'way ahead—that one with the branches all scraggly and closedown to the ground. I could start to climb that easy; but I couldn'tthat pine over there. See, it's 'way up, up, before there's a place foryour foot! But I love pines. Up there on the mountains where I lived,the pines were so tall that it seemed as if God used them sometimes tohold up the sky."

And Simeon Holly heard, and said nothing; and that he did saynothing—especially nothing in answer to David's confident assertionsconcerning celestial and terrestrial architecture—only goes to showhow well, indeed, the man was learning to look at the world throughDavid's eyes.

Nor were these all of David's friends to whom Mr. and Mrs. Holly wereintroduced on that memorable walk. There were the birds, and thesquirrels, and, in fact, everything that had life. And each one hegreeted joyously by name, as he would greet a friend whose home andhabits he knew. Here was a wonderful woodpecker, there was a beautifulbluejay. Ahead, that brilliant bit of color that flashed across theirpath was a tanager. Once, far up in the sky, as they crossed an openspace, David spied a long black streak moving southward.

"Oh, see!" he exclaimed. "The crows! See them?—'way up there? Wouldn'tit be fun if we could do that, and fly hundreds and hundreds of miles,maybe a thousand?"

"Oh, David," remonstrated Mrs. Holly, unbelievingly.

"But they do! These look as if they'd started on their winter journeySouth, too; but if they have, they're early. Most of them don't go tillOctober. They come back in March, you know. Though I've had them, onthe mountain, that stayed all the year with me."

"My! but I love to watch them go," murmured David, his eyes followingthe rapidly disappearing blackline. "Lots of birds you can't see, youknow, when they start for the South. They fly at night—the woodpeckersand orioles and cuckoos, and lots of others. They're afraid, I guess,don't you? But I've seen them. I've watched them. They tell each otherwhen they're going to start."

"Oh, David," remonstrated Mrs. Holly, again, her eyes reproving, butplainly enthralled.

"But they do tell each other," claimed the boy, with sparkling eyes."They must! For, all of a sudden, some night, you'll hear the signal,and then they'll begin to gather from all directions. I've seen them.Then, suddenly, they're all up and off to the South—not in one bigflock, but broken up into little flocks, following one after another,with such a beautiful whir of wings. Oof—OOF—OOF!—and they're gone!And I don't see them again till next year. But you've seen theswallows, haven't you? They go in the daytime, and they're the easiestto tell of any of them. They fly so swift and straight. Haven't youseen the swallows go?"

"Why, I—I don't know, David," murmured Mrs. Holly, with a helplessglance at her husband stalking on ahead. "I—I didn't know there weresuch things to—to know."

There was more, much more, that David said before the walk came to anend. And though, when it did end, neither Simeon Holly nor his wifesaid a word of its having been a pleasure or a profit, there was yet ontheir faces something of the peace and rest and quietness that belongedto the woods they had left.

It was a beautiful month—that September, and David made the most ofit. Out of school meant out of doors for him. He saw Mr. Jack and Jilloften. He spent much time, too, with the Lady of the Roses. She wasstill the Lady of the ROSES to David, though in the garden now were thepurple and scarlet and yellow of the asters, salvia, and golden glow,instead of the blush and perfume of the roses.

David was very much at home at Sunnycrest. He was welcome, he knew, togo where he pleased. Even the servants were kind to him, as well as wasthe elderly cousin whom he seldom saw, but who, he knew, lived there ascompany for his Lady of the Roses.

Perhaps best, next to the garden, David loved the tower room; possiblybecause Miss Holbrook herself so often suggested that they go there.And it was there that they were when he said, dreamily, one day:—

"I like this place—up here so high, only sometimes it does make methink of that Princess, because it was in a tower like this that shewas, you know."

"Fairy stories, David?" asked Miss Holbrook lightly.

"No, not exactly, though there was a Princess in it. Mr. Jack told it."David's eyes were still out of the window.

"Oh, Mr. Jack! And does Mr. Jack often tell you stories?"

"No. He never told only this one—and maybe that's why I remember itso."

"Well, and what did the Princess do?" Miss Holbrook's voice was stilllight, still carelessly preoccupied. Her attention, plainly, was givento the sewing in her hand.

"She didn't do and that's what was the trouble," sighed David. "Shedidn't wave, you know."

The needle in Miss Holbrook's fingers stopped short in mid-air, thethread half-drawn.

"Didn't—wave!" she stammered. "What do you—mean?"

"Nothing," laughed the boy, turning away from the window. "I forgotthat you didn't know the story."

"But maybe I do—that is—what was the story?" asked Miss Holbrook,wetting her lips as if they had grown suddenly very dry.

"Oh, do you? I wonder now! It wasn't 'The PRINCE and the Pauper,' butthe PRINCESS and the Pauper," cited David; "and they used to wavesignals, and answer with flags. Do you know the story?"

There was no answer. Miss Holbrook was putting away her work,hurriedly, and with hands that shook. David noticed that she evenpricked herself in her anxiety to get the needle tucked away. Then shedrew him to a low stool at her side.

"David, I want you to tell me that story, please," she said, "just asMr. Jack told it to you. Now, be careful and put it all in, becauseI—I want to hear it," she finished, with an odd little laugh thatseemed to bring two bright red spots to her cheeks.

"Oh, do you want to hear it? Then I will tell it," cried Davidjoyfully. To David, almost as delightful as to hear a story was to tellone himself. "You see, first—" And he plunged headlong into theintroduction.

David knew it well—that story: and there was, perhaps, little that heforgot. It might not have been always told in Mr. Jack's language; buthis meaning was there, and very intently Miss Holbrook listened whileDavid told of the boy and the girl, the wavings, and the flags thatwere blue, black, and red. She laughed once,—that was at the littlejoke with the bells that the girl played,—but she did not speak untilsometime later when David was telling of the first home-coming of thePrincess, and of the time when the boy on his tiny piazza watched andwatched in vain for a waving white signal from the tower.

"Do you mean to say," interposed Miss Holbrook then, almost starting toher feet, "that that boy expected—" She stopped suddenly, and fellback in her chair. The two red spots on her cheeks had become a rosyglow now, all over her face.

"Expected what?" asked David.

"N—nothing. Go on. I was so—so interested," explained Miss Holbrookfaintly. "Go on."

And David did go on; nor did the story lose by his telling. It gained,indeed, something, for now it had woven through it the very strongsympathy of a boy who loved the Pauper for his sorrow and hated thePrincess for causing that sorrow.

"And so," he concluded mournfully, "you see it isn't a very nice story,after all, for it didn't end well a bit. They ought to have got marriedand lived happy ever after. But they didn't."

Miss Holbrook drew in her breath a little uncertainly, and put her handto her throat. Her face now, instead of being red, was very white.

"But, David," she faltered, after a moment, "perhapshe—the—Pauper—did not—not love the Princess any longer."

"Mr. Jack said that he did."

The white face went suddenly pink again.

"Then, why didn't he go to her and—and—tell her?"

David lifted his chin. With all his dignity he answered, and his wordsand accent were Mr. Jack's.

"Paupers don't go to Princesses, and say 'I love you.'"

"But perhaps if they did—that is—if—" Miss Holbrook bit her lips anddid not finish her sentence. She did not, indeed, say anything more fora long time. But she had not forgotten the story. David knew that,because later she began to question him carefully about many littlepoints—points that he was very sure he had already made quite plain.She talked about it, indeed, until he wondered if perhaps she weregoing to tell it to some one else sometime. He asked her if she were;but she only shook her head. And after that she did not question himany more. And a little later David went home.

CHAPTER XXI

HEAVY HEARTS

For a week David had not been near the House that Jack Built, and that,too, when Jill had been confined within doors for several days with acold. Jill, indeed, was inclined to be grieved at this apparent lack ofinterest on the part of her favorite playfellow; but upon her returnfrom her first day of school, after her recovery, she met her brotherwith startled eyes.

"Jack, it hasn't been David's fault at all," she cried remorsefully."He's sick."

"Sick!"

"Yes; awfully sick. They've had to send away for doctors andeverything."

"Why, Jill, are you sure? Where did you hear this?"

"At school to-day. Every one was talking about it."

"But what is the matter?"

"Fever—some sort. Some say it's typhoid, and some scarlet, and somesay another kind that I can't remember; but everybody says he's awfullysick. He got it down to Glaspell's, some say,—and some say he didn't.But, anyhow, Betty Glaspell has been sick with something, and theyhaven't let folks in there this week," finished Jill, her eyes big withterror.

"The Glaspells? But what was David doing down there?"

"Why, you know,—he told us once,—teaching Joe to play. He's beenthere lots. Joe is blind, you know, and can't see, but he just lovesmusic, and was crazy over David's violin; so David took down his otherone—the one that was his father's, you know—and showed him how topick out little tunes, just to take up his time so he wouldn't mind somuch that he couldn't see. Now, Jack, wasn't that just like David?Jack, I can't have anything happen to David!"

"No, dear, no; of course not! I'm afraid we can't any of us, for thatmatter," sighed Jack, his forehead drawn into anxious lines. "I'll godown to the Hollys', Jill, the first thing tomorrow morning, and seehow he is and if there's anything we can do. Meanwhile, don't take ittoo much to heart, dear. It may not be half so bad as you think.School-children always get things like that exaggerated, you mustremember," he finished, speaking with a lightness that he did not feel.

To himself the man owned that he was troubled, seriously troubled. Hehad to admit that Jill's story bore the earmarks of truth; andoverwhelmingly he realized now just how big a place this somewhatpuzzling small boy had come to fill in his own heart. He did not needJill's anxious "Now, hurry, Jack," the next morning to start him off inall haste for the Holly farmhouse. A dozen rods from the driveway hemet Perry Larson and stopped him abruptly.

"Good morning, Larson; I hope this isn't true—what I hear—that Davidis very ill."

Larson pulled off his hat and with his free hand sought the oneparticular spot on his head to which he always appealed when he wasvery much troubled.

"Well, yes, sir, I'm afraid 't is, Mr. Jack—er—Mr. Gurnsey, I mean.He is turrible sick, poor little chap, an' it's too bad—that's what itis—too bad!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I hoped the report was exaggerated. I came down to seeif—if there wasn't something I could do."

"Well, 'course you can ask—there ain't no law ag'in' that; an' yeneedn't be afraid, neither. The report has got 'round that it'sketchin'—what he's got, and that he got it down to the Glaspells'; but't ain't so. The doctor says he didn't ketch nothin', an' he can't givenothin'. It's his head an' brain that ain't right, an' he's got amighty bad fever. He's been kind of flighty an' nervous, anyhow, lately.

"As I was sayin', 'course you can ask, but I'm thinkin' there won't benothin' you can do ter help. Ev'rythin' that can be done is bein' done.In fact, there ain't much of anythin' else that is bein' done downthere jest now but, tendin' ter him. They've got one o' them 'ereedyercated nurses from the Junction—what wears caps, ye know, an'makes yer feel as if they knew it all, an' you didn't know nothin'. An'then there's Mr. an' Mis' Holly besides. If they had THEIR way, therewouldn't neither of, em let him out o' their sight fur a minute,they're that cut up about it."

"I fancy they think a good deal of the boy—as we all do," murmured theyounger man, a little unsteadily.

Larson wrinkled his forehead in deep thought.

"Yes; an' that's what beats me," he answered slowly; "'bout HIM,—Mr.Holly, I mean. 'Course we'd 'a' expected it of HER—losin' her own boyas she did, an' bein' jest naturally so sweet an' lovin'-hearted. ButHIM—that's diff'rent. Now, you know jest as well as I do what Mr.Holly is—every one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin' sland'rous. He's agood man—a powerful good man; an' there ain't a squarer man goin' terwork fur. But the fact is, he was made up wrong side out, an' the seamshas always showed bad—turrible bad, with ravelin's all stickin' outevery which way ter ketch an' pull. But, gosh! I'm blamed if that, ereboy ain't got him so smoothed down, you wouldn't know, scursely, thathe had a seam on him, sometimes; though how he's done it beats me. Now,there's Mis' Holly—she's tried ter smooth 'em, I'll warrant, lots oftimes. But I'm free ter say she hain't never so much as clipped aravelin' in all them forty years they've lived tergether. Fact is, it'sworked the other way with her. All that HER rubbin' up ag'in' themseams has amounted to is ter git herself so smoothed down that shedon't never dare ter say her soul's her own, most generally,—anyhow,not if he happens ter intermate it belongs ter anybody else!"

Jack Gurnsey suddenly choked over a cough.

"I wish I could—do something," he murmured uncertainly.

"'T ain't likely ye can—not so long as Mr. an' Mis' Holly is on theirtwo feet. Why, there ain't nothin' they won't do, an' you'll believeit, maybe, when I tell you that yesterday Mr. Holly, he tramped allthrough Sawyer's woods in the rain, jest ter find a little bit of mossthat the boy was callin' for. Think o' that, will ye? Simeon Hollyhuntin' moss! An' he got it, too, an' brung it home, an' they say itcut him up somethin' turrible when the boy jest turned away, and didn'ttake no notice. You understand, 'course, sir, the little chap ain'tright in his head, an' so half the time he don't know what he says."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sorry!" exclaimed Gurnsey, as he turned away, andhurried toward the farmhouse.

Mrs. Holly herself answered his low knock. She looked worn and pale.

"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, in reply to his offer ofassistance, "but there isn't anything you can do, Mr. Gurnsey. We'rehaving everything done that can be, and every one is very kind. We havea very good nurse, and Dr. Kennedy has had consultation with Dr. Bensonfrom the Junction. They are doing all in their power, of course, butthey say that—that it's going to be the nursing that will count now."

"Then I don't fear for him, surely" declared the man, with fervor.

"I know, but—well, he shall have the very best possible—of that."

"I know he will; but isn't there anything—anything that I can do?"

She shook her head.

"No. Of course, if he gets better—" She hesitated; then lifted herchin a little higher; "WHEN he gets better," she corrected withcourageous emphasis, "he will want to see you."

"And he shall see me," asserted Gurnsey. "And he will be better, Mrs.Holly,—I'm sure he will."

"Yes, yes, of course, only—oh, Mr. Jack, he's so sick—so very sick!The doctor says he's a peculiarly sensitive nature, and that he thinkssomething's been troubling him lately." Her voice broke.

"Poor little chap!" Mr. Jack's voice, too, was husky.

She looked up with swift gratefulness for his sympathy.

"And you loved him, too, I know" she choked. "He talks of youoften—very often."

"Indeed I love him! Who could help it?"

"There couldn't anybody, Mr. Jack,—and that's just it. Now, since he'sbeen sick, we've wondered more than ever who he is. You see, I can'thelp thinking that somewhere he's got friends who ought to know abouthim—now."

"Yes, I see," nodded the man.

"He isn't an ordinary boy, Mr. Jack. He's been trained in lots ofways—about his manners, and at the table, and all that. And lots ofthings his father has told him are beautiful, just beautiful! He isn'ta tramp. He never was one. And there's his playing. YOU know how he canplay."

"Indeed I do! You must miss his playing, too."

"I do; he talks of that, also," she hurried on, working her fingersnervously together; "but oftenest he—he speaks of singing, and I can'tquite understand that, for he didn't ever sing, you know."

"Singing? What does he say?" The man asked the question because he sawthat it was affording the overwrought little woman real relief to freeher mind; but at the first words of her reply he became suddenly alert.

"It's 'his song,' as he calls it, that he talks about, always. It isn'tmuch—what he says—but I noticed it because he always says the samething, like this: I'll just hold up my chin and march straight on andon, and I'll sing it with all my might and main.' And when I ask himwhat he's going to sing, he always says, 'My song—my song,' just likethat. Do you think, Mr. Jack, he did have—a song?"

For a moment the man did not answer. Something in his throat tightened,and held the words. Then, in a low voice he managed to stammer:—

"I think he did, Mrs. Holly, and—I think he sang it, too." The nextmoment, with a quick lifting of his hat and a murmured "I'll call againsoon," he turned and walked swiftly down the driveway.

So very swiftly, indeed, was Mr. Jack walking, and so self-absorbed washe, that he did not see the carriage until it was almost upon him; thenhe stepped aside to let it pass. What he saw as he gravely raised hishat was a handsome span of black horses, a liveried coachman, and apair of startled eyes looking straight into his. What he did not seewas the quick gesture with which Miss Holbrook almost ordered hercarriage stopped the minute it had passed him by.

CHAPTER XXII

AS PERRY SAW IT

One by one the days passed, and there came from the anxious watchers atDavid's bedside only the words, "There's very little change." OftenJack Gurnsey went to the farmhouse to inquire for the boy. Often, too,he saw Perry Larson; and Perry was never loath to talk of David. It wasfrom Perry, indeed, that Gurnsey began to learn some things of Davidthat he had never known before.

"It does beat all," Perry Larson said to him one day, "how many folksasks me how that boy is—folks that you'd never think knew him, anyhow,ter say nothin' of carin' whether he lived or died. Now, there's oldMis' Somers, fur instance. YOU know what she is—sour as a lemon an'puckery as a chokecherry. Well, if she didn't give me yesterday a greatbo-kay o' posies she'd growed herself, an' said they was fur him—thatthey berlonged ter him, anyhow.

"'Course, I didn't exactly sense what she meant by that, so I asked herstraight out; an' it seems that somehow, when the boy first come, hestruck her place one day an' spied a great big red rose on one of herbushes. It seems he had his fiddle, an' he, played it,—that rosea-growin' (you know his way!), an' she heard an' spoke up pretty sharpan' asked him what in time he was doin'. Well, most kids would 'a'run,—knowin' her temper as they does,—but not much David. He standsup as pert as ye please, an' tells her how happy that red rose must beter make all that dreary garden look so pretty; an' then he goes on,merry as a lark, a-playin' down the hill.

"Well, Mis' Somers owned up ter me that she was pretty mad at the time,'cause her garden did look like tunket, an' she knew it. She said shehadn't cared ter do a thing with it since her Bessie died that thoughtso much of it. But after what David had said, even mad as she was, thething kind o' got on her nerves, an' she couldn't see a thing, day ornight, but that red rose a-growin' there so pert an' courageous-like,until at last, jest ter quiet herself, she fairly had ter set to an'slick that garden up! She said she raked an' weeded, an' fixed up allthe plants there was, in good shape, an' then she sent down to theJunction fur some all growed in pots, 'cause 't was too late ter plantseeds. An, now it's doin' beautiful, so she jest could n't help sendin'them posies ter David. When I told Mis' Holly, she said she was glad ithappened, 'cause what Mis' Somers needed was somethin' ter git her outof herself—an' I'm free ter say she did look better-natured, an' nomistake,—kind o' like a chokecherry in blossom, ye might say."

"An' then there's the Widder Glaspell," continued Perry, after a pause."'Course, any one would expect she'd feel bad, seein' as how good Davidwas ter her boy—teachin' him ter play, ye know. But Mis' Glaspell saysJoe jest does take on somethin' turrible, an' he won't tech the fiddle,though he was plum carried away with it when David was well an'teachin' of him. An' there's the Clark kid. He's lame, ye know, an' hethought the world an' all of David's playin'.

"'Course, there's you an' Miss Holbrook, always askin' an' sendin'things—but that ain't so strange, 'cause you was 'specially hisfriends. But it's them others what beats me. Why, some days it's 'mostev'ry soul I meet, jest askin' how he is, an' sayin' they hopes he'llgit well. Sometimes it's kids that he's played to, an' I'll betriggered if one of 'em one day didn't have no excuse to offer exceptthat David had fit him—'bout a cat, or somethin'—an' that ever sincethen he'd thought a heap of him—though he guessed David didn't knowit. Listen ter that, will ye!

"An' once a woman held me up, an' took on turrible, but all I could gitfrom her was that he'd sat on her doorstep an' played ter her baby onceor twice;—as if that was anythin'! But one of the derndest funny oneswas the woman who said she could wash her dishes a sight easier aftershe'd a-seen him go by playin'. There was Bill Dowd, too. You know hereally HAS got a screw loose in his head somewheres, an' there ain'tany one but what says he's the town fool, all right. Well, what do yethink HE said?"

Mr. Jack shook his head.

"Well, he said he did hope as how nothin' would happen ter that boycause he did so like ter see him smile, an' that he always did smileevery time he met him! There, what do ye think o' that?"

"Well, I think, Perry," returned Mr. Jack soberly, "that Bill Dowdwasn't playing the fool, when he said that, quite so much as hesometimes is, perhaps."

"Hm-m, maybe not," murmured Perry Larson perplexedly. "Still, I'm freeter say I do think 't was kind o' queer." He paused, then slapped hisknee suddenly. "Say, did I tell ye about Streeter—Old Bill Streeteran' the pear tree?"

Again Mr. Jack shook his head.

"Well, then, I'm goin' to," declared the other, with gleeful emphasis."An', say, I don't believe even YOU can explain this—I don't! Well,you know Streeter—ev'ry one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin'sland'rous. He was cut on a bias, an' that bias runs ter money everytime. You know as well as I do that he won't lift his finger unlessthere's a dollar stickin' to it, an' that he hain't no use fur anythin'nor anybody unless there's money in it for him. I'm blamed if I don'tthink that if he ever gits ter heaven, he'll pluck his own wings an'sell the feathers fur what they'll bring."

"Oh, Perry!" remonstrated Mr. Jack, in a half-stifled voice.

Perry Larson only grinned and went on imperturbably.

"Well, seein' as we both understand what he is, I'll tell ye what heDONE. He called me up ter his fence one day, big as life, an' says he,'How's the boy?' An' you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather.Streeter—a-askin' how a boy was that was sick! An' he seemed ter care,too. I hain't seen him look so longfaced since—since he was paid up ona sartin note I knows of, jest as he was smackin' his lips over a nicefat farm that was comin' to him!

"Well, I was that plum puzzled that I meant ter find out why Streeterwas takin' sech notice, if I hung fur it. So I set to on a littledetective work of my own, knowin', of course, that 't wa'n't no useaskin' of him himself. Well, an' what do you s'pose I found out? Ifthat little scamp of a boy hadn't even got round him—Streeter, theskinflint! He had—an' he went there often, the neighbors said; an'Streeter doted on him. They declared that actually he give him a centonce—though THAT part I ain't swallerin' yet.

"They said—the neighbors did—that it all started from the peartree—that big one ter the left of his house. Maybe you remember it.Well, anyhow, it seems that it's old, an' through bearin' any fruit,though it still blossoms fit ter kill, every year, only a little late'most always, an' the blossoms stay on longer'n common, as if they knewthere wa'n't nothin' doin' later. Well, old Streeter said it had gotter come down. I reckon he suspected it of swipin' some of thesunshine, or maybe a little rain that belonged ter the tree t'otherside of the road what did bear fruit an' was worth somethin'! Anyhow,he got his man an' his axe, an' was plum ready ter start in when hesees David an' David sees him.

"'T was when the boy first come. He'd gone ter walk an' had struck thispear tree, all in bloom,—an' 'course, YOU know how the boy wouldact—a pear tree, bloomin', is a likely sight, I'll own. He danced andlaughed and clapped his hands,—he didn't have his fiddle withhim,—an' carried on like all possessed. Then he sees the man with theaxe, an' Streeter an' Streeter sees him.

"They said it was rich then—Bill Warner heard it all from t'other sideof the fence. He said that David, when he found out what was goin' terhappen, went clean crazy, an' rampaged on at such a rate that oldStreeter couldn't do nothin' but stand an' stare, until he finallymanaged ter growl out: 'But I tell ye, boy, the tree ain't no use nomore!'

"Bill says the boy flew all to pieces then. 'No use—no use!' he cries;'such a perfectly beautiful thing as that no use! Why, it don't haveter be any use when it's so pretty. It's jest ter look at an' love, an'be happy with!' Fancy sayin' that ter old Streeter! I'd like ter seenhis face. But Bill says that wa'n't half what the boy said. He declaredthat 't was God's present, anyhow, that trees was; an' that the thingsHe give us ter look at was jest as much use as the things He give uster eat; an' that the stars an' the sunsets an' the snowflakes an' thelittle white cloud-boats, an' I don't know what-all, was jest asimportant in the Orchestra of Life as turnips an' squashes. An' then,Billy says, he ended by jest flingin' himself on ter Streeter an'beggin' him ter wait till he could go back an' git his fiddle so hecould tell him what a beautiful thing that tree was.

"Well, if you'll believe it, old Streeter was so plum befuzzled he sentthe man an' the axe away—an' that tree's a-livin' ter-day—'t is!" hefinished; then, with a sudden gloom on his face, Larson added, huskily:"An' I only hope I'll be sayin' the same thing of that boy—come nextmonth at this time!"

"We'll hope you will," sighed the other fervently.

And so one by one the days passed, while the whole town waited andwhile in the great airy "parlor bedroom" of the Holly farmhouse onesmall boy fought his battle for life. Then came the blackest day andnight of all when the town could only wait and watch—it had lost itshope; when the doctors shook their heads and refused to meet Mrs.Holly's eyes; when the pulse in the slim wrist outside the coverletplayed hide-and-seek with the cool, persistent fingers that sought soearnestly for it; when Perry Larson sat for uncounted sleepless hoursby the kitchen stove, and fearfully listened for a step crossing thehallway; when Mr. Jack on his porch, and Miss Holbrook in her towerwidow, went with David down into the dark valley, and came so near therushing river that life, with its petty prides and prejudices, couldnever seem quite the same to them again.

Then, after that blackest day and night, came the dawn—as the dawns docome after the blackest of days and nights. In the slender wristoutside the coverlet the pulse gained and steadied. On the foreheadbeneath the nurse's fingers, a moisture came. The doctors nodded theirheads now, and looked every one straight in the eye. "He will live,"they said. "The crisis is passed." Out by the kitchen stove PerryLarson heard the step cross the hall and sprang upright; but at thefirst glimpse of Mrs. Holly's tear-wet, yet radiant face, he collapsedlimply.

"Gosh!" he muttered. "Say, do you know, I didn't s'pose I did care somuch! I reckon I'll go an' tell Mr. Jack. He'll want ter hear."

CHAPTER XXIII

PUZZLES

David's convalescence was picturesque, in a way. As soon as he wasable, like a king he sat upon his throne and received his subjects; anda very gracious king he was, indeed. His room overflowed with flowersand fruit, and his bed quite groaned with the toys and books and gamesbrought for his diversion, each one of which he hailed with delight,from Miss Holbrook's sumptuously bound "Waverley Novels" to littlecrippled Jimmy Clark's bag of marbles.

Only two things puzzled David: one was why everybody was so good tohim; and the other was why he never could have the pleasure of both Mr.Jack's and Miss Holbrook's company at the same time.

David discovered this last curious circumstance concerning Mr. Jack andMiss Holbrook very early in his convalescence. It was on the secondafternoon that Mr. Jack had been admitted to the sick-room. David hadbeen hearing all the latest news of Jill and Joe, when suddenly henoticed an odd change come to his visitor's face.

The windows of the Holly "parlor bedroom" commanded a fine view of theroad, and it was toward one of these windows that Mr. Jack's eyes weredirected. David, sitting up in bed, saw then that down the road wasapproaching very swiftly a handsome span of black horses and an opencarriage which he had come to recognize as belonging to Miss Holbrook.He watched it eagerly now till he saw the horses turn in at the Hollydriveway. Then he gave a low cry of delight.

"It's my Lady of the Roses! She's coming to see me. Look! Oh, I'm soglad! Now you'll see her, and just KNOW how lovely she is. Why, Mr.Jack, you aren't going NOW!" he broke off in manifest disappointment,as Mr. Jack leaped to his feet.

"I think I'll have to, if you don't mind, David," returned the man, anoddly nervous haste in his manner. "And YOU won't mind, now that you'llhave Miss Holbrook. I want to speak to Larson. I saw him in the fieldout there a minute ago. And I guess I'll slip right through this windowhere, too, David. I don't want to lose him; and I can catch him quickerthis way than any other," he finished, throwing up the sash.

"Oh, but Mr. Jack, please just wait a minute," begged David. "I wantedyou to see my Lady of the Roses, and—" But Mr. Jack was already on theground outside the low window, and the next minute, with a merry nodand smile, he had pulled the sash down after him and was hurrying away.

Almost at once, then, Miss Holbrook appeared at the bedroom door.

"Mrs. Holly said I was to walk right in, David, so here I am," shebegan, in a cheery voice. "Oh, you're looking lots better than when Isaw you Monday, young man!"

"I am better," caroled David; "and to-day I'm 'specially better,because Mr. Jack has been here."

"Oh, has Mr. Jack been to see you to-day?" There was an indefinablechange in Miss Holbrook's voice.

"Yes, right now. Why, he was here when you were driving into the yard."

Miss Holbrook gave a perceptible start and looked about her a littlewildly.

"Here when—But I didn't meet him anywhere—in the hall."

"He didn't go through the hall," laughed David gleefully. "He wentright through that window there."

"The window!" An angry flush mounted to Miss Holbrook's forehead."Indeed, did he have to resort to that to escape—" She bit her lip andstopped abruptly.

David's eyes widened a little.

"Escape? Oh, HE wasn't the one that was escaping. It was Perry. Mr.Jack was afraid he'd lose him. He saw him out the window there, rightafter he'd seen you, and he said he wanted to speak to him and he wasafraid he'd get away. So he jumped right through that window there.See?"

"Oh, yes, I—see," murmured Miss Holbrook, in a voice David thought wasa little queer.

"I wanted him to stay," frowned David uncertainly. "I wanted him to seeyou."

"Dear me, David, I hope you didn't tell him so."

"Oh, yes, I did. But he couldn't stay, even then. You see, he wanted tocatch Perry Larson."

"I've no doubt of it," retorted Miss Holbrook, with so much emphasisthat David again looked at her with a slightly disturbed frown.

"But he'll come again soon, I'm sure, and then maybe you'll be here,too. I do so want him to see you, Lady of the Roses!"

"Nonsense, David!" laughed Miss Holbrook a little nervously. "Mr.—Mr.Gurnsey doesn't want to see me. He's seen me dozens of times."

"Oh, yes, he told me he'd seen you long ago," nodded David gravely;"but he didn't act as if he remembered it much."

"Didn't he, indeed!" laughed Miss Holbrook, again flushing a little."Well, I'm sure, dear, we wouldn't want to tax the poor gentleman'smemory too much, you know. Come, suppose you see what I've broughtyou," she finished gayly.

"Oh, what is it?" cried David, as, under Miss Holbrook's swift fingers,the wrappings fell away and disclosed a box which, upon being opened,was found to be filled with quantities of oddly shaped bits of picturedwood—a jumble of confusion.

"It's a jig-saw puzzle, David. All these little pieces fitted togethermake a picture, you see. I tried last night and I could n't do it. Ibrought it down to see if you could."

"Oh, thank you! I'd love to," rejoiced the boy. And in the fascinationof the marvel of finding one fantastic bit that fitted another, Davidapparently forgot all about Mr. Jack—which seemed not unpleasing tohis Lady of the Roses.

It was not until nearly a week later that David had his wish of seeinghis Mr. Jack and his Lady of the Roses meet at his bedside. It was theday Miss Holbrook brought to him the wonderful set of handsomely bound"Waverley Novels." He was still glorying in his new possession, infact, when Mr. Jack appeared suddenly in the doorway.

"Hullo my boy, I just—Oh, I beg your pardon. I supposed youwere—alone," he stammered, looking very red indeed.

"He is—that is, he will be, soon—except for you, Mr. Gurnsey," smiledMiss Holbrook, very brightly. She was already on her feet.

"No, no, I beg of you," stammered Mr. Jack, growing still more red."Don't let me drive—that is, I mean, don't go, please. I didn't know.I had no warning—I didn't see—Your carriage was not at the doorto-day."

Miss Holbrook's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch.

"I sent it home. I am planning to walk back. I have several calls tomake on the way; and it's high time I was starting. Good-bye, David."

"But, Lady, of the Roses, please, please, don't go," besought David,who had been looking from one to the other in worried dismay. "Why,you've just come!"

But neither coaxing nor argument availed; and before David really knewjust what had happened, he found himself alone with Mr. Jack.

Even then disappointment was piled on disappointment, for Mr. Jack'svisit was not the unalloyed happiness it usually was. Mr. Jack himselfwas almost cross at first, and then he was silent and restless, movingjerkily about the room in a way that disturbed David very much.

Mr. Jack had brought with him a book; but even that only made mattersworse, for when he saw the beautifully bound volumes that Miss Holbrookhad just left, he frowned, and told David that he guessed he did notneed his gift at all, with all those other fine books. And David couldnot seem to make him understand that the one book from him was justexactly as dear as were the whole set of books that his Lady of theRoses brought.

Certainly it was not a satisfactory visit at all, and for the firsttime David was almost glad to have Mr. Jack go and leave him with hisbooks. The BOOKS, David told himself, he could understand; Mr. Jack hecould not—to-day.

Several times after this David's Lady of the Roses and Mr. Jackhappened to call at the same hour; but never could David persuade thesetwo friends of his to stay together. Always, if one came and the otherwas there, the other went away, in spite of David's protestations thattwo people did not tire him at all and his assertions that he oftenentertained as many as that at once. Tractable as they were in allother ways, anxious as they seemed to please him, on this one pointthey were obdurate: never would they stay together.

They were not angry with each other—David was sure of that, for theywere always very especially polite, and rose, and stood, and bowed in amost delightful fashion. Still, he sometimes thought that they did notquite like each other, for always, after the one went away, the other,left behind, was silent and almost stern—if it was Mr. Jack; andflushed-faced and nervous—if it was Miss Holbrook. But why this was soDavid could not understand.

The span of handsome black horses came very frequently to the Hollyfarmhouse now, and as time passed they often bore away behind them awhite-faced but happy-eyed boy on the seat beside Miss Holbrook.

"My, but I don't see how every one can be so good to me!" exclaimed theboy, one day, to his Lady of the Roses.

"Oh, that's easy, David," she smiled. "The only trouble is to find outwhat you want—you ask for so little."

"But I don't need to ask—you do it all beforehand," asserted the boy,"you and Mr. Jack, and everybody."

"Really? That's good." For a brief moment Miss Holbrook hesitated;then, as if casually, she asked: "And he tells you stories, too, Isuppose,—this Mr. Jack,—just as he used to, doesn't he?"

"Well, he never did tell me but one, you know, before; but he's told memore now, since I've been sick."

"Oh, yes, I remember, and that one was 'The Princess and the Pauper,'wasn't it? Well, has he told you any more—like—that?"

The boy shook his head with decision.

"No, he doesn't tell me any more like that, and—and I don't want himto, either."

Miss Holbrook laughed a little oddly.

"Why, David, what is the matter with that?" she queried.

"The ending; it wasn't nice, you know."

"Oh, yes, I—I remember."

"I've asked him to change it," went on David, in a grieved voice. "Iasked him just the other day, but he wouldn't."

"Perhaps he—he didn't want to." Miss Holbrook spoke very quickly, butso low that David barely heard the words.

"Didn't want to? Oh, yes, he did! He looked awful sober, and as if hereally cared, you know. And he said he'd give all he had in the worldif he really could change it, but he couldn't."

"Did he say—just that?" Miss Holbrook was leaning forward a littlebreathlessly now.

"Yes—just that; and that's the part I couldn't understand," commentedDavid. "For I don't see why a story—just a story made up out ofsomebody's head—can't be changed any way you want it. And I told himso."

"Well, and what did he say to that?"

"He didn't say anything for a minute, and I had to ask him again. Thenhe sat up suddenly, just as if he'd been asleep, you know, and said,'Eh, what, David?' And then I told him again what I'd said. This timehe shook his head, and smiled that kind of a smile that isn't really asmile, you know, and said something about a real, true-to-life story'snever having but one ending, and that was a logical ending. Lady of theRoses, what is a logical ending?"

The Lady of the Roses laughed unexpectedly. The two little red spots,that David always loved to see, flamed into her cheeks, and her eyesshowed a sudden sparkle. When she answered, her words camedisconnectedly, with little laughing breaths between.

"Well, David, I—I'm not sure I can—tell you. But perhaps I—can findout. This much, however, I am sure of: Mr. Jack's logical endingwouldn't be—mine!"

What she meant David did not know; nor would she tell him when heasked; but a few days later she sent for him, and very gladlyDavid—able now to go where he pleased—obeyed the summons.

It was November, and the garden was bleak and cold; but in the librarya bright fire danced on the hearth, and before this Miss Holbrook drewup two low chairs.

She looked particularly pretty, David thought. The rich red of herdress had apparently brought out an answering red in her cheeks. Hereyes were very bright and her lips smiled; yet she seemed oddly nervousand restless. She sewed a little, with a bit of yellow silk onwhite—but not for long. She knitted with two long ivory needlesflashing in and out of a silky mesh of blue—but this, too, she soonceased doing. On a low stand at David's side she had placed books andpictures, and for a time she talked of those. Then very abruptly sheasked:—

"David, when will you see—Mr. Jack again—do you suppose?"

"Tomorrow. I'm going up to the House that Jack Built to tea, and I'm tostay all night. It's Halloween—that is, it isn't really Halloween,because it's too late. I lost that, being sick, you know. So we'regoing to pretend, and Mr. Jack is going to show me what it is like.That is what Mr. Jack and Jill always do; when something ails the realthing, they just pretend with the make-believe one. He's planned lotsof things for Jill and me to do; with nuts and apples and candles, youknow. It's to-morrow night, so I'll see him then."

"To-morrow? So—so soon?" faltered Miss Holbrook. And to David, gazingat her with wondering eyes, it seemed for a moment almost as if shewere looking about for a place to which she might run and hide. Thendeterminedly, as if she were taking hold of something with both hands,she leaned forward, looked David squarely in the eyes, and began totalk hurriedly, yet very distinctly.

"David, listen. I've something I want you to say to Mr. Jack, and Iwant you to be sure and get it just right. It's about the—the story,'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know. You can remember, I think, foryou remembered that so well. Will you say it to him—what I'm going totell you—just as I say it?"

"Why, of course I will!" David's promise was unhesitating, though hiseyes were still puzzled.

"It's about the—the ending," stammered Miss Holbrook. "That is, itmay—it may have something to do with the ending—perhaps," shefinished lamely. And again David noticed that odd shifting of MissHolbrook's gaze as if she were searching for some means of escape.Then, as before, he saw her chin lift determinedly, as she began totalk faster than ever.

"Now, listen," she admonished him, earnestly.

And David listened.

CHAPTER XXIV

A STORY REMODELED

The pretended Halloween was a great success. So very excited, indeed,did David become over the swinging apples and popping nuts that hequite forgot to tell Mr. Jack what the Lady of the Roses had said untilJill had gone up to bed and he himself was about to take from Mr.Jack's hand the little lighted lamp.

"Oh, Mr. Jack, I forgot," he cried then. "There was something I wasgoing to tell you."

"Never mind to-night, David; it's so late. Suppose we leave it untilto-morrow," suggested Mr. Jack, still with the lamp extended in hishand.

"But I promised the Lady of the Roses that I'd say it to-night,"demurred the boy, in a troubled voice.

The man drew his lamp halfway back suddenly.

"The Lady of the Roses! Do you mean—she sent a message—to ME?" hedemanded.

"Yes; about the story, 'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know."

With an abrupt exclamation Mr. Jack set the lamp on the table andturned to a chair. He had apparently lost his haste to go to bed.

"See here, David, suppose you come and sit down, and tell me just whatyou're talking about. And first—just what does the Lady of the Rosesknow about that—that 'Princess and the Pauper'?"

"Why, she knows it all, of course," returned the boy in surprise. "Itold it to her."

"You—told—it—to her!" Mr. Jack relaxed in his chair. "David!"

"Yes. And she was just as interested as could be."

"I don't doubt it!" Mr. Jack's lips snapped together a little grimly.

"Only she didn't like the ending, either."

Mr. Jack sat up suddenly.

"She didn't like—David, are you sure? Did she SAY that?"

David frowned in thought.

"Well, I don't know as I can tell, exactly, but I'm sure she did n'tlike it, because just before she told me WHAT to say to you, she saidthat—that what she was going to say would probably have something todo with the ending, anyway. Still—" David paused in yet deeperthought. "Come to think of it, there really isn't anything—not in whatshe said—that CHANGED that ending, as I can see. They didn't getmarried and live happy ever after, anyhow."

"Yes, but what did she say?" asked Mr. Jack in a voice that was notquite steady. "Now, be careful, David, and tell it just as she said it."

"Oh, I will," nodded David. "SHE said to do that, too."

"Did she?" Mr. Jack leaned farther forward in his chair. "But tell me,how did she happen to—to say anything about it? Suppose you begin atthe beginning—away back, David. I want to hear it all—all!"

David gave a contented sigh, and settled himself more comfortably.

"Well, to begin with, you see, I told her the story long ago, before Iwas sick, and she was ever so interested then, and asked lots ofquestions. Then the other day something came up—I've forgottenhow—about the ending, and I told her how hard I'd tried to have youchange it, but you wouldn't. And she spoke right up quick and saidprobably you didn't want to change it, anyhow. But of course I settledTHAT question without any trouble," went on David confidently, "by justtelling her how you said you'd give anything in the world to change it."

"And you told her that—just that, David?" cried the man.

"Why, yes, I had to," answered David, in surprise, "else she wouldn'thave known that you DID want to change it. Don't you see?"

"Oh, yes! I—see—a good deal that I'm thinking you don't," mutteredMr. Jack, falling back in his chair.

"Well, then is when I told her about the logical ending—what you said,you know,—oh, yes! and that was when I found out she did n't like theending, because she laughed such a funny little laugh and colored up,and said that she wasn't sure she could tell me what a logical endingwas, but that she would try to find out, and that, anyhow, YOUR endingwouldn't be hers—she was sure of that."

"David, did she say that—really?" Mr. Jack was on his feet now.

"She did; and then yesterday she asked me to come over, and she saidsome more things,—about the story, I mean,—but she didn't say anotherthing about the ending. She didn't ever say anything about that exceptthat little bit I told you of a minute ago."

"Yes, yes, but what did she say?" demanded Mr. Jack, stopping short inhis walk up and down the room.

"She said: 'You tell Mr. Jack that I know something about that story ofhis that perhaps he doesn't. In the first place, I know the Princess alot better than he does, and she isn't a bit the kind of girl he'spictured her."

"Yes! Go on—go on!"

"'Now, for instance,' she says, 'when the boy made that call, after thegirl first came back, and when the boy didn't like it because theytalked of colleges and travels, and such things, you tell him that Ihappen to know that that girl was just hoping and hoping he'd speak ofthe old days and games; but that she could n't speak, of course, whenhe hadn't been even once to see her during all those weeks, and whenhe'd acted in every way just as if he'd forgotten.'"

"But she hadn't waved—that Princess hadn't waved—once!" argued Mr.Jack; "and he looked and looked for it."

"Yes, SHE spoke of that," returned David. "But SHE said she shouldn'tthink the Princess would have waved, when she'd got to be such a greatbig girl as that—WAVING to a BOY! She said that for her part sheshould have been ashamed of her if she had!"

"Oh, did she!" murmured Mr. Jack blankly, dropping suddenly into hischair.

"Yes, she did," repeated David, with a little virtuous uplifting of hischin.

It was plain to be seen that David's sympathies had unaccountably metwith a change of heart.

"But—the Pauper—"

"Oh, yes, and that's another thing," interrupted David. "The Lady ofthe Roses said that she didn't like that name one bit; that it wasn'ttrue, anyway, because he wasn't a pauper. And she said, too, that asfor his picturing the Princess as being perfectly happy in all thatmagnificence, he didn't get it right at all. For SHE knew that thePrincess wasn't one bit happy, because she was so lonesome for thingsand people she had known when she was just the girl."

Again Mr. Jack sprang to his feet. For a minute he strode up and downthe room in silence; then in a shaking voice he asked:—

"David, you—you aren't making all this up, are you? You're saying justwhat—what Miss Holbrook told you to?"

"Why, of course, I'm not making it up," protested the boy aggrievedly."This is the Lady of the Roses' story—SHE made it up—only she talkedit as if 't was real, of course, just as you did. She said anotherthing, too. She said that she happened to know that the Princess hadgot all that magnificence around her in the first place just to see ifit wouldn't make her happy, but that it hadn't, and that now she hadone place—a little room—that was left just as it used to be when shewas the girl, and that she went there and sat very often. And she saidit was right in sight of where the boy lived, too, where he could seeit every day; and that if he hadn't been so blind he could have lookedright through those gray walls and seen that, and seen lots of otherthings. And what did she mean by that, Mr. Jack?"

"I don't know—I don't know, David," half-groaned Mr. Jack. "SometimesI think she means—and then I think that can't be—true."

"But do you think it's helped it any—the story?" persisted the boy."She's only talked a little about the Princess. She didn't reallychange things any—not the ending."

"But she said it might, David—she said it might! Don't you remember?"cried the man eagerly. And to David, his eagerness did not seem at allstrange. Mr. Jack had said before—long ago—that he would be very gladindeed to have a happier ending to this tale. "Think now," continuedthe man. "Perhaps she said something else, too. Did she say anythingelse, David?"

David shook his head slowly.

"No, only—yes, there was a little something, but it doesn't CHANGEthings any, for it was only a 'supposing.' She said: 'Just supposing,after long years, that the Princess found out about how the boy feltlong ago, and suppose he should look up at the tower some day, at theold time, and see a ONE—TWO wave, which meant, "Come over to see me."Just what do you suppose he would do?' But of course, THAT can't do anygood," finished David gloomily, as he rose to go to bed, "for that wasonly a 'supposing.'"

"Of course," agreed Mr. Jack steadily; and David did not know that onlystern self-control had forced the steadiness into that voice, nor that,for Mr. Jack, the whole world had burst suddenly into song.

Neither did David, the next morning, know that long before eighto'clock Mr. Jack stood at a certain window, his eyes unswervingly fixedon the gray towers of Sunnycrest. What David did know, however, wasthat just after eight, Mr. Jack strode through the room where he andJill were playing checkers, flung himself into his hat and coat, andthen fairly leaped down the steps toward the path that led to thefootbridge at the bottom of the hill.

"Why, whatever in the world ails Jack?" gasped Jill. Then, after astartled pause, she asked. "David, do folks ever go crazy for joy?Yesterday, you see, Jack got two splendid pieces of news. One was fromhis doctor. He was examined, and he's fine, the doctor says; all well,so he can go back, now any time, to the city and work. I shall go toschool then, you know,—a young ladies' school," she finished, a littleimportantly.

"He's well? How splendid! But what was the other news? You said therewere two; only it couldn't have been nicer than that was; to bewell—all well!"

"The other? Well, that was only that his old place in the city waswaiting for him. He was with a firm of big lawyers, you know, and ofcourse it is nice to have a place all waiting. But I can't see anythingin those things to make him act like this, now. Can you?"

"Why, yes, maybe," declared David. "He's found his work—don't yousee?—out in the world, and he's going to do it. I know how I'd feel ifI had found mine that father told me of! Only what I can't understandis, if Mr. Jack knew all this yesterday, why did n't he act like thisthen, instead of waiting till to-day?"

"I wonder," said Jill.

CHAPTER XXV

THE BEAUTIFUL WORLD

David found many new songs in his violin those early winter days, andthey were very beautiful ones. To begin with, there were all the kindlylooks and deeds that were showered upon him from every side. There wasthe first snowstorm, too, with the feathery flakes turning all theworld to fairy whiteness. This song David played to Mr. Streeter, oneday, and great was his disappointment that the man could not seem tounderstand what the song said.

"But don't you see?" pleaded David. "I'm telling you that it's yourpear-tree blossoms come back to say how glad they are that you didn'tkill them that day."

"Pear-tree blossoms—come back!" ejaculated the old man. "Well, no, Ican't see. Where's yer pear-tree blossoms?"

"Why, there—out of the window—everywhere," urged the boy.

"THERE! By ginger! boy—ye don't mean—ye CAN'T mean the SNOW!"

"Of course I do! Now, can't you see it? Why, the whole tree was just agreat big cloud of snowflakes. Don't you remember? Well, now it's goneaway and got a whole lot more trees, and all the little white petalshave come dancing down to celebrate, and to tell you they sure arecoming back next year."

"Well, by ginger!" exclaimed the man again. Then, suddenly, he threwback his head with a hearty laugh. David did not quite like the laugh,neither did he care for the five-cent piece that the man thrust intohis fingers a little later; though—had David but known it—both thelaugh and the five-cent piece gift were—for the uncomprehending manwho gave them—white milestones along an unfamiliar way.

It was soon after this that there came to David the great surprise—hisbeloved Lady of the Roses and his no less beloved Mr. Jack were to bemarried at the beginning of the New Year. So very surprised, indeed,was David at this, that even his violin was mute, and had nothing, atfirst, to say about it. But to Mr. Jack, as man to man, David said oneday:—

"I thought men, when they married women, went courting. In story-booksthey do. And you—you hardly ever said a word to my beautiful Lady ofthe Roses; and you spoke once—long ago—as if you scarcely rememberedher at all. Now, what do you mean by that?"

And Mr. Jack laughed, but he grew red, too,—and then he told itall,—that it was just the story of "The Princess and the Pauper," andthat he, David, had been the one, as it happened, to do part of theircourting for them.

And how David had laughed then, and how he had fairly hugged himselffor joy! And when next he had picked up his violin, what a beautiful,beautiful song he had found about it in the vibrant strings!

It was this same song, as it chanced, that he was playing in his roomthat Saturday afternoon when the letter from Simeon Holly's long-lostson John came to the Holly farmhouse.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Simeon Holly stood, with the letter in hishand.

"Ellen, we've got a letter from—John," he said. That Simeon Hollyspoke of it at all showed how very far along HIS unfamiliar way he hadcome since the last letter from John had arrived.

"From—John? Oh, Simeon! From John?"

"Yes."

Simeon sat down and tried to hide the shaking of his hand as he ran thepoint of his knife under the flap of the envelope. "We'll see what—hesays." And to hear him, one might have thought that letters from Johnwere everyday occurrences.

DEAR FATHER: Twice before I have written [ran the letter], and receivedno answer. But I'm going to make one more effort for forgiveness. May Inot come to you this Christmas? I have a little boy of my own now, andmy heart aches for you. I know how I should feel, should he, in yearsto come, do as I did.

I'll not deceive you—I have not given up my art. You told me once tochoose between you and it—and I chose, I suppose; at least, I ranaway. Yet in the face of all that, I ask you again, may I not come toyou at Christmas? I want you, father, and I want mother. And I want youto see my boy.

"Well?" said Simeon Holly, trying to speak with a steady coldness thatwould not show how deeply moved he was. "Well, Ellen?"

"Yes, Simeon, yes!" choked his wife, a world of mother-love and longingin her pleading eyes and voice. "Yes—you'll let it be—'Yes'!"

"Uncle Simeon, Aunt Ellen," called David, clattering down the stairsfrom his room, "I've found such a beautiful song in my violin, and I'mgoing to play it over and over so as to be sure and remember it forfather—for it is a beautiful world, Uncle Simeon, isn't it? Now,listen!"

And Simeon Holly listened—but it was not the violin that he heard. Itwas the voice of a little curly-headed boy out of the past.

When David stopped playing some time later, only the woman sat watchinghim—the man was over at his desk, pen in hand.

John, John's wife, and John's boy came the day before Christmas, andgreat was the excitement in the Holly farmhouse. John was found to bebig, strong, and bronzed with the outdoor life of many a sketchingtrip—a son to be proud of, and to be leaned upon in one's old age.Mrs. John, according to Perry Larson, was "the slickest little womangoin'." According to John's mother, she was an almost unbelievableincarnation of a long-dreamed-of, long-despaired-of daughter—sweet,lovable, and charmingly beautiful. Little John—little John washimself; and he could not have been more had he been an angel-cherubstraight from heaven—which, in fact, he was, in his dotinggrandparents' eyes.

John Holly had been at his old home less than four hours when hechanced upon David's violin. He was with his father and mother at thetime. There was no one else in the room. With a sidelong glance at hisparents, he picked up the instrument—John Holly had not forgotten hisown youth. His violin-playing in the old days had not been welcome, heremembered.

"A fiddle! Who plays?" he asked.

"David."

"Oh, the boy. You say you—took him in? By the way, what an odd littleshaver he is! Never did I see a BOY like HIM." Simeon Holly's head cameup almost aggressively.

"David is a good boy—a very good boy, indeed, John. We think a greatdeal of him."

John Holly laughed lightly, yet his brow carried a puzzled frown. Twothings John Holly had not been able thus far to understand: anindefinable change in his father, and the position of the boy David, inthe household—John Holly was still remembering his own repressed youth.

"Hm-m," he murmured, softly picking the strings, then drawing acrossthem a tentative bow. "I've a fiddle at home that I play sometimes. Doyou mind if I—tune her up?"

A flicker of something that was very near to humor flashed from hisfather's eyes.

"Oh, no. We are used to that—now." And again John Holly remembered hisyouth.

"Jove! but he's got the dandy instrument here," cried the player,dropping his bow after the first half-dozen superbly vibrant tones, andcarrying the violin to the window. A moment later he gave an amazedejaculation and turned on his father a dumfounded face.

"Great Scott, father! Where did that boy get this instrument? I KNOWsomething of violins, if I can't play them much; and this—! Where DIDhe get it?"

"Of his father, I suppose. He had it when he came here, anyway."

"'Had it when he came'! But, father, you said he was a tramp, and—oh,come, tell me, what is the secret behind this? Here I come home andfind calmly reposing on my father's sitting-room table a violin that'spriceless, for all I know. Anyhow, I do know that its value is reckonedin the thousands, not hundreds: and yet you, with equal calmness, tellme it's owned by this boy who, it's safe to say, doesn't know how toplay sixteen notes on it correctly, to say nothing of appreciatingthose he does play; and who, by your own account, is nothing but—" Aswiftly uplifted hand of warning stayed the words on his lips. Heturned to see David himself in the doorway.

"Come in, David," said Simeon Holly quietly. "My son wants to hear youplay. I don't think he has heard you." And again there flashed fromSimeon Holly's eyes a something very much like humor.

With obvious hesitation John Holly relinquished the violin. From theexpression on his face it was plain to be seen the sort of torture hedeemed was before him. But, as if constrained to ask the question, hedid say:—

"Where did you get this violin, boy?"

"I don't know. We've always had it, ever since I could remember—thisand the other one."

"The OTHER one!"

"Father's."

"Oh!" He hesitated; then, a little severely, he observed: "This is afine instrument, boy,—a very fine instrument."

"Yes," nodded David, with a cheerful smile. "Father said it was. I likeit, too. This is an Amati, but the other is a Stradivarius. I don'tknow which I do like best, sometimes, only this is mine."

With a half-smothered ejaculation John Holly fell back limply.

"Then you—do—know?" he challenged.

"Know—what?"

"The value of that violin in your hands."

There was no answer. The boy's eyes were questioning.

"The worth, I mean,—what it's worth."

"Why, no—yes—that is, it's worth everything—to me," answered David,in a puzzled voice.

With an impatient gesture John Holly brushed this aside.

"But the other one—where is that?"

"At Joe Glaspell's. I gave it to him to play on, because he had n'tany, and he liked to play so well."

"You GAVE it to him—a Stradivarius!"

"I loaned it to him," corrected David, in a troubled voice. "Beingfather's, I couldn't bear to give it away. But Joe—Joe had to havesomething to play on."

"'Something to play on'! Father, he doesn't mean the River StreetGlaspells?" cried John Holly.

"I think he does. Joe is old Peleg Glaspell's grandson." John Hollythrew up both his hands.

"A Stradivarius—to old Peleg's grandson! Oh, ye gods!" he muttered."Well, I'll be—" He did not finish his sentence. At another word fromSimeon Holly, David had begun to play.

From his seat by the stove Simeon Holly watched his son's face—andsmiled. He saw amazement, unbelief, and delight struggle for themastery; but before the playing had ceased, he was summoned by PerryLarson to the kitchen on a matter of business. So it was into thekitchen that John Holly burst a little later, eyes and cheek aflame.

"Father, where in Heaven's name DID you get that boy?" he demanded."Who taught him to play like that? I've been trying to find out fromhim, but I'd defy Sherlock Holmes himself to make head or tail of thesort of lingo he talks, about mountain homes and the Orchestra of Life!Father, what DOES it mean?"

Obediently Simeon Holly told the story then, more fully than he hadtold it before. He brought forward the letter, too, with its mysterioussignature.

"Perhaps you can make it out, son," he laughed. "None of the rest of uscan, though I haven't shown it to anybody now for a long time. I gotdiscouraged long ago of anybody's ever making it out."

"Make it out—make it out!" cried John Holly excitedly; "I should say Icould! It's a name known the world over. It's the name of one of thegreatest violinists that ever lived."

"But how—what—how came he in my barn?" demanded Simeon Holly.

"Easily guessed, from the letter, and from what the world knows,"returned John, his voice still shaking with excitement. "He was alwaysa queer chap, they say, and full of his notions. Six or eight years agohis wife died. They say he worshiped her, and for weeks refused even totouch his violin. Then, very suddenly, he, with his four-year-old son,disappeared—dropped quite out of sight. Some people guessed thereason. I knew a man who was well acquainted with him, and at the timeof the disappearance he told me quite a lot about him. He said he wasn't a bit surprised at what had happened. That already half a dozenrelatives were interfering with the way he wanted to bring the boy up,and that David was in a fair way to be spoiled, even then, with so muchattention and flattery. The father had determined to make a wonderfulartist of his son, and he was known to have said that he believed—asdo so many others—that the first dozen years of a child's life are themaking of the man, and that if he could have the boy to himself thatlong he would risk the rest. So it seems he carried out his notionuntil he was taken sick, and had to quit—poor chap!"

"But why didn't he tell us plainly in that note who he was, then?"fumed Simeon Holly, in manifest irritation.

"He did, he thought," laughed the other. "He signed his name, and hesupposed that was so well known that just to mention it would beenough. That's why he kept it so secret while he was living on themountain, you see, and that's why even David himself didn't know it. Ofcourse, if anybody found out who he was, that ended his scheme, and heknew it. So he supposed all he had to do at the last was to sign hisname to that note, and everybody would know who he was, and David wouldat once be sent to his own people. (There's an aunt and some cousins, Ibelieve.) You see he didn't reckon on nobody's being able to READ hisname! Besides, being so ill, he probably wasn't quite sane, anyway."

"I see, I see," nodded Simeon Holly, frowning a little. "And of courseif we had made it out, some of us here would have known it, probably.Now that you call it to mind I think I have heard it myself in daysgone by—though such names mean little to me. But doubtless somebodywould have known. However, that is all past and gone now."

"Oh, yes, and no harm done. He fell into good hands, luckily. You'llsoon see the last of him now, of course."

"Last of him? Oh, no, I shall keep David," said Simeon Holly, withdecision.

"Keep him! Why, father, you forget who he is! There are friends,relatives, an adoring public, and a mint of money awaiting that boy.You can't keep him. You could never have kept him this long if thislittle town of yours hadn't been buried in this forgotten valley upamong these hills. You'll have the whole world at your doors the minutethey find out he is here—hills or no hills! Besides, there are hispeople; they have some claim."

There was no answer. With a suddenly old, drawn look on his face, theelder man had turned away.

Half an hour later Simeon Holly climbed the stairs to David's room, andas gently and plainly as he could told the boy of this great, goodthing that had come to him.

David was amazed, but overjoyed. That he was found to be the son of afamous man affected him not at all, only so far as it seemed to set hisfather right in other eyes—in David's own, the man had always beensupreme. But the going away—the marvelous going away—filled him withexcited wonder.

"You mean, I shall go away and study—practice—learn more of myviolin?"

"Yes, David."

"And hear beautiful music like the organ in church, onlymore—bigger—better?"

"I suppose so.".

"And know people—dear people—who will understand what I say when Iplay?"

Simeon Holly's face paled a little; still, he knew David had not meantto make it so hard.

"Yes."

"Why, it's my 'start'—just what I was going to have with thegold-pieces," cried David joyously. Then, uttering a sharp cry ofconsternation, he clapped his fingers to his lips.

"Your—what?" asked the man.

"N—nothing, really, Mr. Holly,—Uncle Simeon,—n—nothing."

Something, either the boy's agitation, or the luckless mention of thegold-pieces sent a sudden dismayed suspicion into Simeon Holly's eyes.

"Your 'start'?—the 'gold-pieces'? David, what do you mean?"

David shook his head. He did not intend to tell. But gently,persistently, Simeon Holly questioned until the whole piteous littletale lay bare before him: the hopes, the house of dreams, the sacrifice.

David saw then what it means when a strong man is shaken by an emotionthat has mastered him; and the sight awed and frightened the boy.

"Mr. Holly, is it because I'm—going—that you care—so much? I neverthought—or supposed—you'd—CARE," he faltered.

There was no answer. Simeon Holly's eyes were turned quite away.

"Uncle Simeon—PLEASE! I—I think I don't want to go, anyway. I—I'msure I don't want to go—and leave YOU!"

Simeon Holly turned then, and spoke.

"Go? Of course you'll go, David. Do you think I'd tie you here tome—NOW?" he choked. "What don't I owe to you—home, son, happiness!Go?—of course you'll go. I wonder if you really think I'd let youstay! Come, we'll go down to mother and tell her. I suspect she'll wantto start in to-night to get your socks all mended up!" And with headerect and a determined step, Simeon Holly faced the mighty sacrifice inhis turn, and led the way downstairs.

The friends, the relatives, the adoring public, the mint of money—theyare all David's now. But once each year, man grown though he is, hepicks up his violin and journeys to a little village far up among thehills. There in a quiet kitchen he plays to an old man and an oldwoman; and always to himself he says that he is practicing against thetime when, his violin at his chin and the bow drawn across the strings,he shall go to meet his father in the far-away land, and tell him ofthe beautiful world he has left.

(Editor: Collectible Figures)

• ·Through the Looking
• ·Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, March 4, 1865.
• ·Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
• ·The United States Bill of Rights
• ·The United States' Constitution
• ·Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address
• ·Lincoln's Gettysburg Address
• ·The Hunting of The Snark