"JUST DAVID\n\nBY\n\nELEANOR H. (HODGMAN) PORTER\n\n\nAUTHOR  POLLYANNA, MISS BILLY MARRIED, ETC.\n\n\n\n  TO\n  MY FRIEND\n  Mrs. James Harness\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n     I.  THE MOUNTAIN HOME\n    II.  THE TRAIL\n   III.  THE VALLEY\n    IV.  TWO LETTERS\n     V.  DISCORDS\n    VI.  NUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE\n   VII.  \"YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!\"\n  VIII.  THE PUZZLING \"DOS\" AND \"DON'TS\"\n    IX.  JOE\n     X.  THE LADY OF THE ROSES\n    XI.  JACK AND JILL\n   XII.  ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER\n  XIII.  A SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK\n   XIV.  THE TOWER WINDOW\n    XV.  SECRETS\n   XVI.  DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN\n  XVII.  \"THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER\"\n XVIII.  DAVID TO THE RESCUE\n   XIX.  THE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD\n    XX.  THE UNFAMILIAR WAY\n   XXI.  HEAVY HEARTS\n  XXII.  AS PERRY SAW IT\n XXIII.  PUZZLES\n  XXIV.  A STORY REMODELED\n   XXV.  THE BEAUTIFUL WORLD\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE MOUNTAIN HOME\n\nFar up on the mountain-side the little shack stood alone in the clearing.\nIt was roughly yet warmly built. Behind it jagged cliffs broke the north\nwind, and towered gray-white in the sunshine. Before it a tiny expanse of\ngreen sloped gently away to a point where the mountain dropped in another\nsharp descent, wooded with scrubby firs and pines. At the left a\nfootpath led into the cool depths of the forest. But at the right the\nmountain fell away again and disclosed to view the picture David loved\nthe best of all: the far-reaching valley; the silver pool of the lake\nwith its ribbon of a river flung far out; and above it the grays and\ngreens and purples of the mountains that climbed one upon another's\nshoulders until the topmost thrust their heads into the wide dome of\nthe sky itself.\n\nThere was no road, apparently, leading away from the cabin. There was\nonly the footpath that disappeared into the forest. Neither, anywhere,\nwas there a house in sight nearer than the white specks far down in the\nvalley by the river.\n\nWithin the shack a wide fireplace dominated one side of the main room.\nIt was June now, and the ashes lay cold on the hearth; but from the\ntiny lean-to in the rear came the smell and the sputter of bacon\nsizzling over a blaze. The furnishings of the room were simple, yet, in\na way, out of the common. There were two bunks, a few rude but\ncomfortable chairs, a table, two music-racks, two violins with their\ncases, and everywhere books, and scattered sheets of music. Nowhere was\nthere cushion, curtain, or knickknack that told of a woman's taste or\ntouch. On the other hand, neither was there anywhere gun, pelt, or\nantlered head that spoke of a man's strength and skill. For decoration\nthere were a beautiful copy of the Sistine Madonna, several photographs\nsigned with names well known out in the great world beyond the\nmountains, and a festoon of pine cones such as a child might gather and\nhang.\n\nFrom the little lean-to kitchen the sound of the sputtering suddenly\nceased, and at the door appeared a pair of dark, wistful eyes.\n\n\"Daddy!\" called the owner of the eyes.\n\nThere was no answer.\n\n\"Father, are you there?\" called the voice, more insistently.\n\nFrom one of the bunks came a slight stir and a murmured word. At the\nsound the boy at the door leaped softly into the room and hurried to\nthe bunk in the corner. He was a slender lad with short, crisp curls at\nhis ears, and the red of perfect health in his cheeks. His hands, slim,\nlong, and with tapering fingers like a girl's, reached forward eagerly.\n\n\"Daddy, come! I've done the bacon all myself, and the potatoes and the\ncoffee, too. Quick, it's all getting cold!\"\n\nSlowly, with the aid of the boy's firm hands, the man pulled himself\nhalf to a sitting posture. His cheeks, like the boy's, were red--but\nnot with health. His eyes were a little wild, but his voice was low and\nvery tender, like a caress.\n\n\"David--it's my little son David!\"\n\n\"Of course it's David! Who else should it be?\" laughed the boy. \"Come!\"\nAnd he tugged at the man's hands.\n\nThe man rose then, unsteadily, and by sheer will forced himself to\nstand upright. The wild look left his eyes, and the flush his cheeks.\nHis face looked suddenly old and haggard. Yet with fairly sure steps he\ncrossed the room and entered the little kitchen.\n\nHalf of the bacon was black; the other half was transparent and like\ntough jelly. The potatoes were soggy, and had the unmistakable taste\nthat comes from a dish that has boiled dry. The coffee was lukewarm and\nmuddy. Even the milk was sour.\n\nDavid laughed a little ruefully.\n\n\"Things aren't so nice as yours, father,\" he apologized. \"I'm afraid\nI'm nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day! Somehow, some of\nthe stove was hotter than the rest, and burnt up the bacon in spots;\nand all the water got out of the potatoes, too,--though THAT didn't\nmatter, for I just put more cold in. I forgot and left the milk in the\nsun, and it tastes bad now; but I'm sure next time it'll be better--all\nof it.\"\n\nThe man smiled, but he shook his head sadly.\n\n\"But there ought not to be any 'next time,' David.\"\n\n\"Why not? What do you mean? Aren't you ever going to let me try again,\nfather?\" There was real distress in the boy's voice.\n\nThe man hesitated. His lips parted with an indrawn breath, as if behind\nthem lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the words still\nunsaid. Then, very lightly, came these others:--\n\n\"Well, son, this isn't a very nice way to treat your supper, is it?\nNow, if you please, I'll take some of that bacon. I think I feel my\nappetite coming back.\"\n\nIf the truant appetite \"came back,\" however, it could not have stayed;\nfor the man ate but little. He frowned, too, as he saw how little the\nboy ate. He sat silent while his son cleared the food and dishes away,\nand he was still silent when, with the boy, he passed out of the house\nand walked to the little bench facing the west.\n\nUnless it stormed very hard, David never went to bed without this last\nlook at his \"Silver Lake,\" as he called the little sheet of water far\ndown in the valley.\n\n\"Daddy, it's gold to-night--all gold with the sun!\" he cried\nrapturously, as his eyes fell upon his treasure. \"Oh, daddy!\"\n\nIt was a long-drawn cry of ecstasy, and hearing it, the man winced, as\nwith sudden pain.\n\n\"Daddy, I'm going to play it--I've got to play it!\" cried the boy,\nbounding toward the cabin. In a moment he had returned, violin at his\nchin.\n\nThe man watched and listened; and as he watched and listened, his face\nbecame a battle-ground whereon pride and fear, hope and despair, joy\nand sorrow, fought for the mastery.\n\nIt was no new thing for David to \"play\" the sunset. Always, when he was\nmoved, David turned to his violin. Always in its quivering strings he\nfound the means to say that which his tongue could not express.\n\nAcross the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become all\npurples now. Above, the sky in one vast flame of crimson and gold, was\na molten sea on which floated rose-pink cloud-boats. Below, the valley\nwith its lake and river picked out in rose and gold against the shadowy\ngreens of field and forest, seemed like some enchanted fairyland of\nloveliness.\n\nAnd all this was in David's violin, and all this, too, was on David's\nuplifted, rapturous face.\n\nAs the last rose-glow turned to gray and the last strain quivered into\nsilence, the man spoke. His voice was almost harsh with self-control.\n\n\"David, the time has come. We'll have to give it up--you and I.\"\n\nThe boy turned wonderingly, his face still softly luminous.\n\n\"Give what up?\"\n\n\"This--all this.\"\n\n\"This! Why, father, what do you mean? This is home!\"\n\nThe man nodded wearily.\n\n\"I know. It has been home; but, David, you didn't think we could always\nlive here, like this, did you?\"\n\nDavid laughed softly, and turned his eyes once more to the distant\nsky-line.\n\n\"Why not?\" he asked dreamily. \"What better place could there be? I like\nit, daddy.\"\n\nThe man drew a troubled breath, and stirred restlessly. The teasing\npain in his side was very bad to-night, and no change of position eased\nit.  He was ill, very ill; and he knew it.  Yet he also knew that, to\nDavid, sickness, pain, and death meant nothing--or, at most, words that\nhad always been lightly, almost unconsciously passed over. For the\nfirst time he wondered if, after all, his training--some of it--had\nbeen wise.\n\nFor six years he had had the boy under his exclusive care and guidance.\nFor six years the boy had eaten the food, worn the clothing, and\nstudied the books of his father's choosing. For six years that father\nhad thought, planned, breathed, moved, lived for his son. There had\nbeen no others in the little cabin. There had been only the occasional\ntrips through the woods to the little town on the mountain-side for\nfood and clothing, to break the days of close companionship.\n\nAll this the man had planned carefully. He had meant that only the good\nand beautiful should have place in David's youth. It was not that he\nintended that evil, unhappiness, and death should lack definition, only\ndefiniteness, in the boy's mind. It should be a case where the good and\nthe beautiful should so fill the thoughts that there would be no room\nfor anything else. This had been his plan. And thus far he had\nsucceeded--succeeded so wonderfully that he began now, in the face of\nhis own illness, and of what he feared would come of it, to doubt the\nwisdom of that planning.\n\nAs he looked at the boy's rapt face, he remembered David's surprised\nquestioning at the first dead squirrel he had found in the woods. David\nwas six then.\n\n\"Why, daddy, he's asleep, and he won't wake up!\" he had cried. Then,\nafter a gentle touch: \"And he's cold--oh, so cold!\"\n\nThe father had hurried his son away at the time, and had evaded his\nquestions; and David had seemed content. But the next day the boy had\ngone back to the subject. His eyes were wide then, and a little\nfrightened.\n\n\"Father, what is it to be--dead?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, David?\"\n\n\"The boy who brings the milk--he had the squirrel this morning. He said\nit was not asleep. It was--dead.\"\n\n\"It means that the squirrel, the real squirrel under the fur, has gone\naway, David.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"To a far country, perhaps.\"\n\n\"Will he come back?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did he want to go?\"\n\n\"We'll hope so.\"\n\n\"But he left his--his fur coat behind him. Didn't he need--that?\"\n\n\"No, or he'd have taken it with him.\"\n\nDavid had fallen silent at this. He had remained strangely silent\nindeed for some days; then, out in the woods with his father one\nmorning, he gave a joyous shout. He was standing by the ice-covered\nbrook, and looking at a little black hole through which the hurrying\nwater could be plainly seen.\n\n\"Daddy, oh, daddy, I know now how it is, about being--dead.\"\n\n\"Why--David!\"\n\n\"It's like the water in the brook, you know; THAT'S going to a far\ncountry, and it isn't coming back. And it leaves its little cold\nice-coat behind it just as the squirrel did, too. It does n't need it.\nIt can go without it. Don't you see? And it's singing--listen!--it's\nsinging as it goes. It WANTS to go!\"\n\n\"Yes, David.\" And David's father had sighed with relief that his son\nhad found his own explanation of the mystery, and one that satisfied.\n\nLater, in his books, David found death again. It was a man, this time.\nThe boy had looked up with startled eyes.\n\n\"Do people, real people, like you and me, be dead, father? Do they go\nto a far country?\n\n\"Yes, son in time--to a far country ruled over by a great and good King\nthey tell us.\"\n\nDavid's father had trembled as he said it, and had waited fearfully for\nthe result. But David had only smiled happily as he answered:\n\n\"But they go singing, father, like the little brook. You know I heard\nit!\"\n\nAnd there the matter had ended. David was ten now, and not yet for him\ndid death spell terror. Because of this David's father was relieved;\nand yet--still because of this--he was afraid.\n\n\"David,\" he said gently. \"Listen to me.\"\n\nThe boy turned with a long sigh.\n\n\"Yes, father.\"\n\n\"We must go away. Out in the great world there are men and women and\nchildren waiting for you. You've a beautiful work to do; and one can't\ndo one's work on a mountain-top.\"\n\n\"Why not? I like it here, and I've always been here.\"\n\n\"Not always, David; six years. You were four when I brought you here.\nYou don't remember, perhaps.\"\n\nDavid shook his head. His eyes were again dreamily fixed on the sky.\n\n\"I think I'd like it--to go--if I could sail away on that little\ncloud-boat up there,\" he murmured.\n\nThe man sighed and shook his head.\n\n\"We can't go on cloud-boats. We must walk, David, for a way--and we\nmust go soon--soon,\" he added feverishly. \"I must get you back--back\namong friends, before--\"\n\nHe rose unsteadily, and tried to walk erect. His limbs shook, and the\nblood throbbed at his temples. He was appalled at his weakness. With a\nfierceness born of his terror he turned sharply to the boy at his side.\n\n\"David, we've got to go! We've got to go--TO-MORROW!\"\n\n\"Father!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, come!\" He stumbled blindly, yet in some way he reached the\ncabin door.\n\nBehind him David still sat, inert, staring. The next minute the boy had\nsprung to his feet and was hurrying after his father.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE TRAIL\n\nA curious strength seemed to have come to the man. With almost steady\nhands he took down the photographs and the Sistine Madonna, packing\nthem neatly away in a box to be left. From beneath his bunk he dragged\na large, dusty traveling-bag, and in this he stowed a little food, a\nfew garments, and a great deal of the music scattered about the room.\n\nDavid, in the doorway, stared in dazed wonder. Gradually into his eyes\ncrept a look never seen there before.\n\n\"Father, where are we going?\" he asked at last in a shaking voice, as\nhe came slowly into the room.\n\n\"Back, son; we're going back.\"\n\n\"To the village, where we get our eggs and bacon?\"\n\n\"No, no, lad, not there. The other way. We go down into the valley this\ntime.\"\n\n\"The valley--MY valley, with the Silver Lake?\"\n\n\"Yes, my son; and beyond--far beyond.\" The man spoke dreamily. He was\nlooking at a photograph in his hand. It had slipped in among the loose\nsheets of music, and had not been put away with the others. It was the\nlikeness of a beautiful woman.\n\nFor a moment David eyed him uncertainly; then he spoke.\n\n\"Daddy, who is that? Who are all these people in the pictures? You've\nnever told me about any of them except the little round one that you\nwear in your pocket. Who are they?\"\n\nInstead of answering, the man turned faraway eyes on the boy and smiled\nwistfully.\n\n\"Ah, David, lad, how they'll love you! How they will love you! But you\nmustn't let them spoil you, son. You must remember--remember all I've\ntold you.\"\n\nOnce again David asked his question, but this time the man only turned\nback to the photograph, muttering something the boy could not\nunderstand.\n\nAfter that David did not question any more. He was too amazed, too\ndistressed. He had never before seen his father like this. With nervous\nhaste the man was setting the little room to rights, crowding things\ninto the bag, and packing other things away in an old trunk. His cheeks\nwere very red, and his eyes very bright. He talked, too, almost\nconstantly, though David could understand scarcely a word of what was\nsaid. Later, the man caught up his violin and played; and never before\nhad David heard his father play like that. The boy's eyes filled, and\nhis heart ached with a pain that choked and numbed--though why, David\ncould not have told. Still later, the man dropped his violin and sank\nexhausted into a chair; and then David, worn and frightened with it\nall, crept to his bunk and fell asleep.\n\nIn the gray dawn of the morning David awoke to a different world. His\nfather, white-faced and gentle, was calling him to get ready for\nbreakfast. The little room, dismantled of its decorations, was bare and\ncold. The bag, closed and strapped, rested on the floor by the door,\ntogether with the two violins in their cases, ready to carry.\n\n\"We must hurry, son. It's a long tramp before we take the cars.\"\n\n\"The cars--the real cars? Do we go in those?\" David was fully awake now.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And is that all we're to carry?\"\n\n\"Yes. Hurry, son.\"\n\n\"But we come back--sometime?\"\n\nThere was no answer.\n\n\"Father, we're coming back--sometime?\" David's voice was insistent now.\n\nThe man stooped and tightened a strap that was already quite tight\nenough. Then he laughed lightly.\n\n\"Why, of course you're coming back sometime, David. Only think of all\nthese things we're leaving!\"\n\nWhen the last dish was put away, the last garment adjusted, and the\nlast look given to the little room, the travelers picked up the bag and\nthe violins, and went out into the sweet freshness of the morning. As\nhe fastened the door the man sighed profoundly; but David did not\nnotice this. His face was turned toward the east--always David looked\ntoward the sun.\n\n\"Daddy, let's not go, after all! Let's stay here,\" he cried ardently,\ndrinking in the beauty of the morning.\n\n\"We must go, David. Come, son.\" And the man led the way across the\ngreen slope to the west.\n\nIt was a scarcely perceptible trail, but the man found it, and followed\nit with evident confidence. There was only the pause now and then to\nsteady his none-too-sure step, or to ease the burden of the bag. Very\nsoon the forest lay all about them, with the birds singing over their\nheads, and with numberless tiny feet scurrying through the underbrush\non all sides. Just out of sight a brook babbled noisily of its delight\nin being alive; and away up in the treetops the morning sun played\nhide-and-seek among the dancing leaves.\n\nAnd David leaped, and laughed, and loved it all, nor was any of it\nstrange to him. The birds, the trees, the sun, the brook, the scurrying\nlittle creatures of the forest, all were friends of his. But the\nman--the man did not leap or laugh, though he, too, loved it all. The\nman was afraid.\n\nHe knew now that he had undertaken more than he could carry out. Step\nby step the bag had grown heavier, and hour by hour the insistent,\nteasing pain in his side had increased until now it was a torture. He\nhad forgotten that the way to the valley was so long; he had not\nrealized how nearly spent was his strength before he even started down\nthe trail. Throbbing through his brain was the question, what if, after\nall, he could not--but even to himself he would not say the words.\n\nAt noon they paused for luncheon, and at night they camped where the\nchattering brook had stopped to rest in a still, black pool. The next\nmorning the man and the boy picked up the trail again, but without the\nbag. Under some leaves in a little hollow, the man had hidden the bag,\nand had then said, as if casually:--\n\n\"I believe, after all, I won't carry this along. There's nothing in it\nthat we really need, you know, now that I've taken out the luncheon\nbox, and by night we'll be down in the valley.\"\n\n\"Of course!\" laughed David. \"We don't need that.\" And he laughed again,\nfor pure joy. Little use had David for bags or baggage!\n\nThey were more than halfway down the mountain now, and soon they\nreached a grass-grown road, little traveled, but yet a road. Still\nlater they came to where four ways crossed, and two of them bore the\nmarks of many wheels. By sundown the little brook at their side\nmurmured softly of quiet fields and meadows, and David knew that the\nvalley was reached.\n\nDavid was not laughing now. He was watching his father with startled\neyes. David had not known what anxiety was. He was finding out\nnow--though he but vaguely realized that something was not right. For\nsome time his father had said but little, and that little had been in a\nvoice that was thick and unnatural-sounding. He was walking fast, yet\nDavid noticed that every step seemed an effort, and that every breath\ncame in short gasps. His eyes were very bright, and were fixedly bent\non the road ahead, as if even the haste he was making was not haste\nenough. Twice David spoke to him, but he did not answer; and the boy\ncould only trudge along on his weary little feet and sigh for the dear\nhome on the mountain-top which they had left behind them the morning\nbefore.\n\nThey met few fellow travelers, and those they did meet paid scant\nattention to the man and the boy carrying the violins. As it chanced,\nthere was no one in sight when the man, walking in the grass at the\nside of the road, stumbled and fell heavily to the ground.\n\nDavid sprang quickly forward.\n\n\"Father, what is it? WHAT IS IT?\"\n\nThere was no answer.\n\n\"Daddy, why don't you speak to me? See, it's David!\"\n\nWith a painful effort the man roused himself and sat up. For a moment\nhe gazed dully into the boy's face; then a half-forgotten something\nseemed to stir him into feverish action. With shaking fingers he handed\nDavid his watch and a small ivory miniature. Then he searched his\npockets until on the ground before him lay a shining pile of\ngold-pieces--to David there seemed to be a hundred of them.\n\n\"Take them--hide them--keep them. David, until you--need them,\" panted\nthe man. \"Then go--go on. I can't.\"\n\n\"Alone? Without you?\" demurred the boy, aghast. \"Why, father, I\ncouldn't! I don't know the way. Besides, I'd rather stay with you,\" he\nadded soothingly, as he slipped the watch and the miniature into his\npocket; \"then we can both go.\" And he dropped himself down at his\nfather's side.\n\nThe man shook his head feebly, and pointed again to the gold-pieces.\n\n\"Take them, David,--hide them,\" he chattered with pale lips.\n\nAlmost impatiently the boy began picking up the money and tucking it\ninto his pockets.\n\n\"But, father, I'm not going without you,\" he declared stoutly, as the\nlast bit of gold slipped out of sight, and a horse and wagon rattled\naround the turn of the road above.\n\nThe driver of the horse glanced disapprovingly at the man and the boy\nby the roadside; but he did not stop. After he had passed, the boy\nturned again to his father. The man was fumbling once more in his\npockets. This time from his coat he produced a pencil and a small\nnotebook from which he tore a page, and began to write, laboriously,\npainfully.\n\nDavid sighed and looked about him. He was tired and hungry, and he did\nnot understand things at all. Something very wrong, very terrible, must\nbe the matter with his father. Here it was almost dark, yet they had no\nplace to go, no supper to eat, while far, far up on the mountain-side\nwas their own dear home sad and lonely without them. Up there, too, the\nsun still shone, doubtless,--at least there were the rose-glow and the\nSilver Lake to look at, while down here there was nothing, nothing but\ngray shadows, a long dreary road, and a straggling house or two in\nsight. From above, the valley might look to be a fairyland of\nloveliness, but in reality it was nothing but a dismal waste of gloom,\ndecided David.\n\nDavid's father had torn a second page from his book and was beginning\nanother note, when the boy suddenly jumped to his feet. One of the\nstraggling houses was near the road where they sat, and its presence\nhad given David an idea. With swift steps he hurried to the front door\nand knocked upon it. In answer a tall, unsmiling woman appeared, and\nsaid, \"Well?\"\n\nDavid removed his cap as his father had taught him to do when one of\nthe mountain women spoke to him.\n\n\"Good evening, lady; I'm David,\" he began frankly. \"My father is so\ntired he fell down back there, and we should like very much to stay\nwith you all night, if you don't mind.\"\n\nThe woman in the doorway stared. For a moment she was dumb with\namazement. Her eyes swept the plain, rather rough garments of the boy,\nthen sought the half-recumbent figure of the man by the roadside. Her\nchin came up angrily.\n\n\"Oh, would you, indeed! Well, upon my word!\" she scouted. \"Humph! We\ndon't accommodate tramps, little boy.\" And she shut the door hard.\n\nIt was David's turn to stare. Just what a tramp might be, he did not\nknow; but never before had a request of his been so angrily refused. He\nknew that. A fierce something rose within him--a fierce new something\nthat sent the swift red to his neck and brow. He raised a determined\nhand to the doorknob--he had something to say to that woman!--when the\ndoor suddenly opened again from the inside.\n\n\"See here, boy,\" began the woman, looking out at him a little less\nunkindly, \"if you're hungry I'll give you some milk and bread. Go\naround to the back porch and I'll get it for you.\" And she shut the\ndoor again.\n\nDavid's hand dropped to his side. The red still stayed on his face and\nneck, however, and that fierce new something within him bade him refuse\nto take food from this woman.... But there was his father--his poor\nfather, who was so tired; and there was his own stomach clamoring to be\nfed. No, he could not refuse. And with slow steps and hanging head\nDavid went around the corner of the house to the rear.\n\nAs the half-loaf of bread and the pail of milk were placed in his\nhands, David remembered suddenly that in the village store on the\nmountain, his father paid money for his food. David was glad, now, that\nhe had those gold-pieces in his pocket, for he could pay money.\nInstantly his head came up. Once more erect with self-respect, he\nshifted his burdens to one hand and thrust the other into his pocket. A\nmoment later he presented on his outstretched palm a shining disk of\ngold.\n\n\"Will you take this, to pay, please, for the bread and milk?\" he asked\nproudly.\n\nThe woman began to shake her head; but, as her eyes fell on the money,\nshe started, and bent closer to examine it. The next instant she jerked\nherself upright with an angry exclamation.\n\n\"It's gold! A ten-dollar gold-piece! So you're a thief, too, are you,\nas well as a tramp? Humph! Well, I guess you don't need this then,\" she\nfinished sharply, snatching the bread and the pail of milk from the\nboy's hand.\n\nThe next moment David stood alone on the doorstep, with the sound of a\nquickly thrown bolt in his ears.\n\nA thief! David knew little of thieves, but he knew what they were. Only\na month before a man had tried to steal the violins from the cabin; and\nhe was a thief, the milk-boy said. David flushed now again, angrily, as\nhe faced the closed door. But he did not tarry. He turned and ran to\nhis father.\n\n\"Father, come away, quick! You must come away,\" he choked.\n\nSo urgent was the boy's voice that almost unconsciously the sick man\ngot to his feet. With shaking hands he thrust the notes he had been\nwriting into his pocket. The little book, from which he had torn the\nleaves for this purpose, had already dropped unheeded into the grass at\nhis feet.\n\n\"Yes, son, yes, we'll go,\" muttered the man. \"I feel better now. I\ncan--walk.\"\n\nAnd he did walk, though very slowly, ten, a dozen, twenty steps. From\nbehind came the sound of wheels that stopped close beside them.\n\n\"Hullo, there! Going to the village?\" called a voice.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" David's answer was unhesitating. Where \"the village\" was,\nhe did not know; he knew only that it must be somewhere away from the\nwoman who had called him a thief. And that was all he cared to know.\n\n\"I'm going 'most there myself. Want a lift?\" asked the man, still\nkindly.\n\n\"Yes, sir. Thank you!\" cried the boy joyfully. And together they aided\nhis father to climb into the roomy wagon-body.\n\nThere were few words said. The man at the reins drove rapidly, and paid\nlittle attention to anything but his horses. The sick man dozed and\nrested. The boy sat, wistful-eyed and silent, watching the trees and\nhouses flit by. The sun had long ago set, but it was not dark, for the\nmoon was round and bright, and the sky was cloudless. Where the road\nforked sharply the man drew his horses to a stop.\n\n\"Well, I'm sorry, but I guess I'll have to drop you here, friends. I\nturn off to the right; but 't ain't more 'n a quarter of a mile for\nyou, now\" he finished cheerily, pointing with his whip to a cluster of\ntwinkling lights.\n\n\"Thank you, sir, thank you,\" breathed David gratefully, steadying his\nfather's steps. \"You've helped us lots. Thank you!\"\n\nIn David's heart was a wild desire to lay at his good man's feet all of\nhis shining gold-pieces as payment for this timely aid. But caution\nheld him back: it seemed that only in stores did money pay; outside it\nbranded one as a thief!\n\nAlone with his father, David faced once more his problem. Where should\nthey go for the night? Plainly his father could not walk far. He had\nbegun to talk again, too,--low, half-finished sentences that David\ncould not understand, and that vaguely troubled him. There was a house\nnear by, and several others down the road toward the village; but David\nhad had all the experience he wanted that night with strange houses,\nand strange women. There was a barn, a big one, which was nearest of\nall; and it was toward this barn that David finally turned his father's\nsteps.\n\n\"We'll go there, daddy, if we can get in,\" he proposed softly. \"And\nwe'll stay all night and rest.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE VALLEY\n\nThe long twilight of the June day had changed into a night that was\nscarcely darker, so bright was the moonlight. Seen from the house, the\nbarn and the low buildings beyond loomed shadowy and unreal, yet very\nbeautiful. On the side porch of the house sat Simeon Holly and his\nwife, content to rest mind and body only because a full day's work lay\nwell done behind them.\n\nIt was just as Simeon rose to his feet to go indoors that a long note\nfrom a violin reached their ears.\n\n\"Simeon!\" cried the woman. \"What was that?\"\n\nThe man did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the barn.\n\n\"Simeon, it's a fiddle!\" exclaimed Mrs. Holly, as a second tone\nquivered on the air \"And it's in our barn!\"\n\nSimeon's jaw set. With a stern ejaculation he crossed the porch and\nentered the kitchen.\n\nIn another minute he had returned, a lighted lantern in his hand.\n\n\"Simeon, d--don't go,\" begged the woman, tremulously. \"You--you don't\nknow what's there.\"\n\n\"Fiddles are not played without hands, Ellen,\" retorted the man\nseverely. \"Would you have me go to bed and leave a half-drunken,\nungodly minstrel fellow in possession of our barn? To-night, on my way\nhome, I passed a pretty pair of them lying by the roadside--a man and a\nboy with two violins. They're the culprits, likely,--though how they\ngot this far, I don't see. Do you think I want to leave my barn to\ntramps like them?\"\n\n\"N--no, I suppose not,\" faltered the woman, as she rose tremblingly to\nher feet, and followed her husband's shadow across the yard.\n\nOnce inside the barn Simeon Holly and his wife paused involuntarily.\nThe music was all about them now, filling the air with runs and trills\nand rollicking bits of melody. Giving an angry exclamation, the man\nturned then to the narrow stairway and climbed to the hayloft above. At\nhis heels came his wife, and so her eyes, almost as soon as his fell\nupon the man lying back on the hay with the moonlight full upon his\nface. Instantly the music dropped to a whisper, and a low voice came\nout of the gloom beyond the square of moonlight which came from the\nwindow in the roof.\n\n\"If you'll please be as still as you can, sir. You see he's asleep and\nhe's so tired,\" said the voice.\n\nFor a moment the man and the woman on the stairway paused in amazement,\nthen the man lifted his lantern and strode toward the voice.\n\n\"Who are you? What are you doing here?\" he demanded sharply.\n\nA boy's face, round, tanned, and just now a bit anxious, flashed out of\nthe dark.\n\n\"Oh, please, sir, if you would speak lower,\" pleaded the boy. \"He's so\ntired! I'm David, sir, and that's father. We came in here to rest and\nsleep.\"\n\nSimeon Holly's unrelenting gaze left the boy's face and swept that of\nthe man lying back on the hay. The next instant he lowered the lantern\nand leaned nearer, putting forth a cautious hand. At once he\nstraightened himself, muttering a brusque word under his breath. Then\nhe turned with the angry question:--\n\n\"Boy, what do you mean by playing a jig on your fiddle at such a time\nas this?\"\n\n\"Why, father asked me to play\" returned the boy cheerily. \"He said he\ncould walk through green forests then, with the ripple of brooks in his\nears, and that the birds and the squirrels--\"\n\n\"See here, boy, who are you?\" cut in Simeon Holly sternly. \"Where did\nyou come from?\"\n\n\"From home, sir.\"\n\n\"Where is that?\"\n\n\"Why, home, sir, where I live. In the mountains, 'way up, up, up--oh,\nso far up! And there's such a big, big sky, so much nicer than down\nhere.\" The boy's voice quivered, and almost broke, and his eyes\nconstantly sought the white face on the hay.\n\nIt was then that Simeon Holly awoke to the sudden realization that it\nwas time for action. He turned to his wife.\n\n\"Take the boy to the house,\" he directed incisively. \"We'll have to\nkeep him to-night, I suppose. I'll go for Higgins. Of course the whole\nthing will have to be put in his hands at once. You can't do anything\nhere,\" he added, as he caught her questioning glance. \"Leave everything\njust as it is. The man is dead.\"\n\n\"Dead?\" It was a sharp cry from the boy, yet there was more of wonder\nthan of terror in it. \"Do you mean that he has gone--like the water in\nthe brook--to the far country?\" he faltered.\n\nSimeon Holly stared. Then he said more distinctly:--\n\n\"Your father is dead, boy.\"\n\n\"And he won't come back any more?\" David's voice broke now.\n\nThere was no answer. Mrs. Holly caught her breath convulsively and\nlooked away. Even Simeon Holly refused to meet the boy's pleading eyes.\n\nWith a quick cry David sprang to his father's side.\n\n\"But he's here--right here,\" he challenged shrilly. \"Daddy, daddy,\nspeak to me! It's David!\" Reaching out his hand, he gently touched his\nfather's face. He drew back then, at once, his eyes distended with\nterror. \"He isn't! He is--gone,\" he chattered frenziedly. \"This isn't\nthe father-part that KNOWS. It's the other--that they leave. He's left\nit behind him--like the squirrel, and the water in the brook.\"\n\nSuddenly the boy's face changed. It grew rapt and luminous as he leaped\nto his feet, crying joyously: \"But he asked me to play, so he went\nsinging--singing just as he said that they did. And I made him walk\nthrough green forests with the ripple of the brooks in his ears!\nListen--like this!\" And once more the boy raised the violin to his\nchin, and once more the music trilled and rippled about the shocked,\namazed ears of Simeon Holly and his wife.\n\nFor a time neither the man nor the woman could speak. There was nothing\nin their humdrum, habit-smoothed tilling of the soil and washing of\npots and pans to prepare them for a scene like this--a moonlit barn, a\nstrange dead man, and that dead man's son babbling of brooks and\nsquirrels, and playing jigs on a fiddle for a dirge. At last, however,\nSimeon found his voice.\n\n\"Boy, boy, stop that!\" he thundered.  \"Are you mad--clean mad? Go into\nthe house, I say!\" And the boy, dazed but obedient, put up his violin,\nand followed the woman, who, with tear-blinded eyes, was leading the\nway down the stairs.\n\nMrs. Holly was frightened, but she was also strangely moved. From the\nlong ago the sound of another violin had come to her--a violin, too,\nplayed by a boy's hands. But of this, all this, Mrs. Holly did not like\nto think.\n\nIn the kitchen now she turned and faced her young guest.\n\n\"Are you hungry, little boy?\"\n\nDavid hesitated; he had not forgotten the woman, the milk, and the\ngold-piece.\n\n\"Are you hungry--dear?\" stammered Mrs. Holly again; and this time\nDavid's clamorous stomach forced a \"yes\" from his unwilling lips; which\nsent Mrs. Holly at once into the pantry for bread and milk and a\nheaped-up plate of doughnuts such as David had never seen before.\n\nLike any hungry boy David ate his supper; and Mrs. Holly, in the face\nof this very ordinary sight of hunger being appeased at her table,\nbreathed more freely, and ventured to think that perhaps this strange\nlittle boy was not so very strange, after all.\n\n\"What is your name?\" she found courage to ask then.\n\n\"David.\"\n\n\"David what?\"\n\n\"Just David.\"\n\n\"But your father's name?\" Mrs. Holly had almost asked, but stopped in\ntime. She did not want to speak of him. \"Where do you live?\" she asked\ninstead.\n\n\"On the mountain, 'way up, up on the mountain where I can see my Silver\nLake every day, you know.\"\n\n\"But you didn't live there alone?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; with father--before he--went away\" faltered the boy.\n\nThe woman flushed red and bit her lip.\n\n\"No, no, I mean--were there no other houses but yours?\" she stammered.\n\n\"No, ma'am.\"\n\n\"But, wasn't your mother--anywhere?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, in father's pocket.\"\n\n\"Your MOTHER--in your father's POCKET!\"\n\nSo plainly aghast was the questioner that David looked not a little\nsurprised as he explained.\n\n\"You don't understand. She is an angel-mother, and angel-mothers don't\nhave anything only their pictures down here with us. And that's what we\nhave, and father always carried it in his pocket.\"\n\n\"Oh----h,\" murmured Mrs. Holly, a quick mist in her eyes. Then, gently:\n\"And did you always live there--on the mountain?\"\n\n\"Six years, father said.\"\n\n\"But what did you do all day? Weren't you ever--lonesome?\"\n\n\"Lonesome?\" The boy's eyes were puzzled.\n\n\"Yes. Didn't you miss things--people, other houses, boys of your own\nage, and--and such things?\"\n\nDavid's eyes widened.\n\n\"Why, how could I?\" he cried. \"When I had daddy, and my violin, and my\nSilver Lake, and the whole of the great big woods with everything in\nthem to talk to, and to talk to me?\"\n\n\"Woods, and things in them to--to TALK to you!\"\n\n\"Why, yes. It was the little brook, you know, after the squirrel, that\ntold me about being dead, and--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; but never mind, dear, now,\" stammered the woman, rising\nhurriedly to her feet--the boy was a little wild, after all, she\nthought. \"You--you should go to bed. Haven't you a--a bag, or--or\nanything?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am; we left it,\" smiled David apologetically. \"You see, we had\nso much in it that it got too heavy to carry. So we did n't bring it.\"\n\n\"So much in it you didn't bring it, indeed!\" repeated Mrs. Holly, under\nher breath, throwing up her hands with a gesture of despair. \"Boy, what\nare you, anyway?\"\n\nIt was not meant for a question, but, to the woman's surprise, the boy\nanswered, frankly, simply:--\n\n\"Father says that I'm one little instrument in the great Orchestra of\nLife, and that I must see to it that I'm always in tune, and don't drag\nor hit false notes.\"\n\n\"My land!\" breathed the woman, dropping back in her chair, her eyes\nfixed on the boy. Then, with an effort, she got to her feet.\n\n\"Come, you must go to bed,\" she stammered. \"I'm sure bed is--is the\nbest place you. I think I can find what--what you need,\" she finished\nfeebly.\n\nIn a snug little room over the kitchen some minutes later, David found\nhimself at last alone. The room, though it had once belonged to a boy\nof his own age, looked very strange to David. On the floor was a\nrag-carpet rug, the first he had ever seen. On the walls were a\nfishing-rod, a toy shotgun, and a case full of bugs and moths, each\nlittle body impaled on a pin, to David's shuddering horror. The bed had\nfour tall posts at the corners, and a very puffy top that filled David\nwith wonder as to how he was to reach it, or stay there if he did gain\nit. Across a chair lay a boy's long yellow-white nightshirt that the\nkind lady had left, after hurriedly wiping her eyes with the edge of\nits hem. In all the circle of the candlelight there was just one\nfamiliar object to David's homesick eyes--the long black violin case\nwhich he had brought in himself, and which held his beloved violin.\n\nWith his back carefully turned toward the impaled bugs and moths on the\nwall, David undressed himself and slipped into the yellow-white\nnightshirt, which he sniffed at gratefully, so like pine woods was the\nperfume that hung about its folds. Then he blew out the candle and\ngroped his way to the one window the little room contained.\n\nThe moon still shone, but little could be seen through the thick green\nbranches of the tree outside. From the yard below came the sound of\nwheels, and of men's excited voices. There came also the twinkle of\nlanterns borne by hurrying hands, and the tramp of shuffling feet. In\nthe window David shivered. There were no wide sweep of mountain, hill,\nand valley, no Silver Lake, no restful hush, no daddy,--no beautiful\nThings that Were. There was only the dreary, hollow mockery of the\nThings they had Become.\n\nLong minutes later, David, with the violin in his arms, lay down upon\nthe rug, and, for the first time since babyhood, sobbed himself to\nsleep--but it was a sleep that brought no rest; for in it he dreamed\nthat he was a big, white-winged moth pinned with a star to an ink-black\nsky.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTWO LETTERS\n\nIn the early gray dawn David awoke. His first sensation was the\nphysical numbness and stiffness that came from his hard bed on the\nfloor.\n\n\"Why, daddy,\" he began, pulling himself half-erect, \"I slept all night\non--\" He stopped suddenly, brushing his eyes with the backs of his\nhands. \"Why, daddy, where--\" Then full consciousness came to him.\n\nWith a low cry he sprang to his feet and ran to the window. Through the\ntrees he could see the sunrise glow of the eastern sky. Down in the\nyard no one was in sight; but the barn door was open, and, with a quick\nindrawing of his breath, David turned back into the room and began to\nthrust himself into his clothing.\n\nThe gold in his sagging pockets clinked and jingled musically; and once\nhalf a dozen pieces rolled out upon the floor. For a moment the boy\nlooked as if he were going to let them remain where they were. But the\nnext minute, with an impatient gesture, he had picked them up and\nthrust them deep into one of his pockets, silencing their jingling with\nhis handkerchief.\n\nOnce dressed, David picked up his violin and stepped softly into the\nhall. At first no sound reached his ears; then from the kitchen below\ncame the clatter of brisk feet and the rattle of tins and crockery.\nTightening his clasp on the violin, David slipped quietly down the back\nstairs and out to the yard. It was only a few seconds then before he\nwas hurrying through the open doorway of the barn and up the narrow\nstairway to the loft above.\n\nAt the top, however, he came to a sharp pause, with a low cry. The next\nmoment he turned to see a kindly-faced man looking up at him from the\nfoot of the stairs.\n\n\"Oh, sir, please--please, where is he? What have you done with him?\"\nappealed the boy, almost plunging headlong down the stairs in his haste\nto reach the bottom.\n\nInto the man's weather-beaten face came a look of sincere but awkward\nsympathy.\n\n\"Oh, hullo, sonny! So you're the boy, are ye?\" he began diffidently.\n\n\"Yes, yes, I'm David. But where is he--my father, you know? I mean\nthe--the part he--he left behind him?\" choked the boy. \"The part\nlike--the ice-coat?\"\n\nThe man stared. Then, involuntarily, he began to back away.\n\n\"Well, ye see, I--I--\"\n\n\"But, maybe you don't know,\" interrupted David feverishly. \"You aren't\nthe man I saw last night. Who are you? Where is he--the other one,\nplease?\"\n\n\"No, I--I wa'n't here--that is, not at the first,\" spoke up the man\nquickly, still unconsciously backing away. \"Me--I'm only Larson, Perry\nLarson, ye know. 'T was Mr. Holly you see last night--him that I works\nfor.\"\n\n\"Then, where is Mr. Holly, please?\" faltered the boy, hurrying toward\nthe barn door. \"Maybe he would know--about father. Oh, there he is!\"\nAnd David ran out of the barn and across the yard to the kitchen porch.\n\nIt was an unhappy ten minutes that David spent then. Besides Mr. Holly,\nthere were Mrs. Holly, and the man, Perry Larson. And they all talked.\nBut little of what they said could David understand. To none of his\nquestions could he obtain an answer that satisfied.\n\nNeither, on his part, could he seem to reply to their questions in a\nway that pleased them.\n\nThey went in to breakfast then, Mr. and Mrs. Holly, and the man, Perry\nLarson. They asked David to go--at least, Mrs. Holly asked him. But\nDavid shook his head and said \"No, no, thank you very much; I'd rather\nnot, if you please--not now.\" Then he dropped himself down on the steps\nto think. As if he could EAT--with that great choking lump in his\nthroat that refused to be swallowed!\n\nDavid was thoroughly dazed, frightened, and dismayed. He knew now that\nnever again in this world would he see his dear father, or hear him\nspeak. This much had been made very clear to him during the last ten\nminutes. Why this should be so, or what his father would want him to\ndo, he could not seem to find out. Not until now had he realized at all\nwhat this going away of his father was to mean to him. And he told\nhimself frantically that he could not have it so. HE COULD NOT HAVE IT\nSO! But even as he said the words, he knew that it was so--irrevocably\nso.\n\n David began then to long for his mountain home. There at least\nhe would have his dear forest all about him, with the birds and the\nsquirrels and the friendly little brooks. There he would have his\nSilver Lake to look at, too, and all of them would speak to him of his\nfather.  He believed, indeed, that up there it would almost seem as if\nhis father were really with him. And, anyway, if his father ever should\ncome back, it would be there that he would be sure to seek him--up\nthere in the little mountain home so dear to them both. Back to the\ncabin he would go now, then. Yes; indeed he would!\n\nWith a low word and a passionately intent expression, David got to his\nfeet, picked up his violin, and hurried, firm-footed, down the driveway\nand out upon the main highway, turning in the direction from whence he\nhad come with his father the night before.\n\nThe Hollys had just finished breakfast when Higgins, the coroner, drove\ninto the yard accompanied by William Streeter, the town's most\nprominent farmer,--and the most miserly one, if report was to be\ncredited.\n\n\"Well, could you get anything out of the boy?\" demanded Higgins,\nwithout ceremony, as Simeon Holly and Larson appeared on the kitchen\nporch.\n\n\"Very little. Really nothing of importance,\" answered Simeon Holly.\n\n\"Where is he now?\"\n\n\"Why, he was here on the steps a few minutes ago.\" Simeon Holly looked\nabout him a bit impatiently.\n\n\"Well, I want to see him. I've got a letter for him.\"\n\n\"A letter!\" exclaimed Simeon Holly and Larson in amazed unison.\n\n\"Yes. Found it in his father's pocket,\" nodded the coroner, with all\nthe tantalizing brevity of a man who knows he has a choice morsel of\ninformation that is eagerly awaited. \"It's addressed to 'My boy David,'\nso I calculated we'd better give it to him first without reading it,\nseeing it's his. After he reads it, though, I want to see it. I want to\nsee if what it says is any nearer being horse-sense than the other one\nis.\"\n\n\"The other one!\" exclaimed the amazed chorus again.\n\n\"Oh, yes, there's another one,\" spoke up William Streeter tersely. \"And\nI've read it--all but the scrawl at the end. There couldn't anybody\nread that!\" Higgins laughed.\n\n\"Well, I'm free to confess 't is a sticker--that name,\" he admitted.\n\"And it's the name we want, of course, to tell us who they are--since\nit seems the boy don't know, from what you said last night. I was in\nhopes, by this morning, you'd have found out more from him.\"\n\nSimeon Holly shook his head.\n\n\"'T was impossible.\"\n\n\"Gosh! I should say 't was,\" cut in Perry Larson, with emphasis. \"An'\nqueer ain't no name for it. One minute he'd be talkin' good common\nsense like anybody: an' the next he'd be chatterin' of coats made o'\nice, an' birds an' squirrels an' babbling brooks. He sure is dippy!\nListen. He actually don't seem ter know the diff'rence between himself\nan' his fiddle. We was tryin' ter find out this mornin' what he could\ndo, an' what he wanted ter do, when if he didn't up an' say that his\nfather told him it didn't make so much diff'rence WHAT he did so long\nas he kept hisself in tune an' didn't strike false notes. Now, what do\nyer think o' that?\"\n\n\"Yes, I, know\" nodded Higgins musingly. \"There WAS something queer\nabout them, and they weren't just ordinary tramps. Did I tell you? I\novertook them last night away up on the Fairbanks road by the Taylor\nplace, and I gave 'em a lift. I particularly noticed what a decent sort\nthey were. They were clean and quiet-spoken, and their clothes were\ngood, even if they were rough. Yet they didn't have any baggage but\nthem fiddles.\"\n\n\"But what was that second letter you mentioned?\" asked Simeon Holly.\n\nHiggins smiled oddly, and reached into his pocket.\n\n\"The letter? Oh, you're welcome to read the letter,\" he said, as he\nhanded over a bit of folded paper.\n\nSimeon took it gingerly and examined it.\n\nIt was a leaf torn apparently from a note book. It was folded three\ntimes, and bore on the outside the superscription \"To whom it may\nconcern.\" The handwriting was peculiar, irregular, and not very\nlegible. But as near as it could be deciphered, the note ran thus:--\n\n\nNow that the time has come when I must give David back to the world, I\nhave set out for that purpose.\n\nBut I am ill--very ill, and should Death have swifter feet than I, I\nmust leave my task for others to complete. Deal gently with him. He\nknows only that which is good and beautiful. He knows nothing of sin\nnor evil.\n\n\nThen followed the signature--a thing of scrawls and flourishes that\nconveyed no sort of meaning to Simeon Holly's puzzled eyes.\n\n\"Well?\" prompted Higgins expectantly.\n\nSimeon Holly shook his head.\n\n\"I can make little of it. It certainly is a most remarkable note.\"\n\n\"Could you read the name?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, I couldn't. Neither could half a dozen others that's seen it.\nBut where's the boy? Mebbe his note'll talk sense.\"\n\n\"I'll go find him,\" volunteered Larson. \"He must be somewheres 'round.\"\n\nBut David was very evidently not \"somewheres 'round.\" At least he was\nnot in the barn, the shed, the kitchen bedroom, nor anywhere else that\nLarson looked; and the man was just coming back with a crestfallen,\nperplexed frown, when Mrs. Holly hurried out on to the porch.\n\n\"Mr. Higgins,\" she cried, in obvious excitement, \"your wife has just\ntelephoned that her sister Mollie has just telephoned HER that that\nlittle tramp boy with the violin is at her house.\"\n\n\"At Mollie's!\" exclaimed Higgins. \"Why, that's a mile or more from\nhere.\"\n\n\"So that's where he is!\" interposed Larson, hurrying forward. \"Doggone\nthe little rascal! He must 'a' slipped away while we was eatin'\nbreakfast.\"\n\n\"Yes. But, Simeon,--Mr. Higgins,--we hadn't ought to let him go like\nthat,\" appealed Mrs. Holly tremulously. \"Your wife said Mollie said she\nfound him crying at the crossroads, because he didn't know which way to\ntake. He said he was going back home. He means to that wretched cabin\non the mountain, you know; and we can't let him do that alone--a child\nlike that!\"\n\n\"Where is he now?\" demanded Higgins.\n\n\"In Mollie's kitchen eating bread and milk; but she said she had an\nawful time getting him to eat. And she wants to know what to do with\nhim. That's why she telephoned your wife. She thought you ought to know\nhe was there.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course. Well, tell her to tell him to come back.\"\n\n\"Mollie said she tried to have him come back, but that he said, no,\nthank you, he'd rather not. He was going home where his father could\nfind him if he should ever want him. Mr. Higgins, we--we CAN'T let him\ngo off like that. Why, the child would die up there alone in those\ndreadful woods, even if he could get there in the first place--which I\nvery much doubt.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course, of course,\" muttered Higgins, with a thoughtful frown.\n\"There's his letter, too. Say!\" he added, brightening, \"what'll you bet\nthat letter won't fetch him? He seems to think the world and all of his\ndaddy. Here,\" he directed, turning to Mrs. Holly, \"you tell my wife to\ntell--better yet, you telephone Mollie yourself, please, and tell her\nto tell the boy we've got a letter here for him from his father, and he\ncan have it if he'll come back.\".\n\n\"I will, I will,\" called Mrs. Holly, over her shoulder, as she hurried\ninto the house. In an unbelievably short time she was back, her face\nbeaming.\n\n\"He's started, so soon,\" she nodded. \"He's crazy with joy, Mollie said.\nHe even left part of his breakfast, he was in such a hurry. So I guess\nwe'll see him all right.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, we'll see him all right,\" echoed Simeon Holly grimly. \"But\nthat isn't telling what we'll do with him when we do see him.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, maybe this letter of his will help us out on that,\"\nsuggested Higgins soothingly. \"Anyhow, even if it doesn't, I'm not\nworrying any. I guess some one will want him--a good healthy boy like\nthat.\"\n\n\"Did you find any money on the body?\" asked Streeter.\n\n\"A little change--a few cents. Nothing to count. If the boy's letter\ndoesn't tell us where any of their folks are, it'll be up to the town\nto bury him all right.\"\n\n\"He had a fiddle, didn't he? And the boy had one, too. Wouldn't they\nbring anything?\" Streeter's round blue eyes gleamed shrewdly.\n\nHiggins gave a slow shake of his head.\n\n\"Maybe--if there was a market for 'em. But who'd buy 'em? There ain't a\nsoul in town plays but Jack Gurnsey; and he's got one. Besides, he's\nsick, and got all he can do to buy bread and butter for him and his\nsister without taking in more fiddles, I guess. HE wouldn't buy 'em.\"\n\n\"Hm--m; maybe not, maybe not,\" grunted Streeter. \"An', as you say, he's\nthe only one that's got any use for 'em here; an' like enough they\nain't worth much, anyway. So I guess 't is up to the town all right.\"\n\n\"Yes; but--if yer'll take it from me,\"--interrupted Larson,--\"you'll be\nwise if ye keep still before the boy. It's no use ASKIN' him anythin'.\nWe've proved that fast enough. An' if he once turns 'round an' begins\nter ask YOU questions, yer done for!\"\n\n\"I guess you're right,\" nodded Higgins, with a quizzical smile. \"And as\nlong as questioning CAN'T do any good, why, we'll just keep whist\nbefore the boy. Meanwhile I wish the little rascal would hurry up and\nget here. I want to see the inside of that letter to HIM. I'm relying\non that being some help to unsnarl this tangle of telling who they are.\"\n\n\"Well, he's started,\" reiterated Mrs. Holly, as she turned back into\nthe house; \"so I guess he'll get here if you wait long enough.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, he'll get here if we wait long enough,\" echoed Simeon Holly\nagain, crustily.\n\nThe two men in the wagon settled themselves more comfortably in their\nseats, and Perry Larson, after a half-uneasy, half-apologetic glance at\nhis employer, dropped himself onto the bottom step. Simeon Holly had\nalready sat down stiffly in one of the porch chairs. Simeon Holly never\n\"dropped himself\" anywhere. Indeed, according to Perry Larson, if there\nwere a hard way to do a thing, Simeon Holly found it--and did it. The\nfact that, this morning, he had allowed, and was still allowing, the\nsacred routine of the day's work to be thus interrupted, for nothing\nmore important than the expected arrival of a strolling urchin, was\nsomething Larson would not have believed had he not seen it. Even now\nhe was conscious once or twice of an involuntary desire to rub his eyes\nto make sure they were not deceiving him.\n\nImpatient as the waiting men were for the arrival of David, they were\nyet almost surprised, so soon did he appear, running up the driveway.\n\n\"Oh, where is it, please?\" he panted. \"They said you had a letter for\nme from daddy!\"\n\n\"You're right, sonny; we have. And here it is,\" answered Higgins\npromptly, holding out the folded paper.\n\nPlainly eager as he was, David did not open the note till he had first\ncarefully set down the case holding his violin; then he devoured it\nwith eager eyes.\n\nAs he read, the four men watched his face. They saw first the quick\ntears that had to be blinked away. Then they saw the radiant glow that\ngrew and deepened until the whole boyish face was aflame with the\nsplendor of it. They saw the shining wonder of his eyes, too, as he\nlooked up from the letter.\n\n\"And daddy wrote this to me from the far country?\" he breathed.\n\nSimeon Holly scowled. Larson choked over a stifled chuckle. William\nStreeter stared and shrugged his shoulders; but Higgins flushed a dull\nred.\n\n\"No, sonny,\" he stammered. \"We found it on the--er--I mean,\nit--er--your father left it in his pocket for you,\" finished the man, a\nlittle explosively.\n\nA swift shadow crossed the boy's face.\n\n\"Oh, I hoped I'd heard--\" he began. Then suddenly he stopped, his face\nonce more alight. \"But it's 'most the same as if he wrote it from\nthere, isn't it? He left it for me, and he told me what to do.\"\n\n\"What's that, what's that?\" cried Higgins, instantly alert.  \"DID he\ntell you what to do? Then, let's have it, so WE'LL know. You will let\nus read it, won't you, boy?\"\n\n\"Why, y--yes,\" stammered David, holding it out politely, but with\nevident reluctance.\n\n\"Thank you,\" nodded Higgins, as he reached for the note.\n\nDavid's letter was very different from the other one. It was longer,\nbut it did not help much, though it was easily read. In his letter, in\nspite of the wavering lines, each word was formed with a care that told\nof a father's thought for the young eyes that would read it. It was\nwritten on two of the notebook's leaves, and at the end came the single\nword \"Daddy.\"\n\n\nDavid, my boy [read Higgins aloud], in the far country I am waiting for\nyou. Do not grieve, for that will grieve me. I shall not return, but\nsome day you will come to me, your violin at your chin, and the bow\ndrawn across the strings to greet me. See that it tells me of the\nbeautiful world you have left--for it is a beautiful world, David;\nnever forget that. And if sometime you are tempted to think it is not a\nbeautiful world, just remember that you yourself can make it beautiful\nif you will.\n\nYou are among new faces, surrounded by things and people that are\nstrange to you. Some of them you will not understand; some of them you\nmay not like. But do not fear, David, and do not plead to go back to\nthe hills. Remember this, my boy,--in your violin lie all the things\nyou long for. You have only to play, and the broad skies of your\nmountain home will be over you, and the dear friends and comrades of\nyour mountain forests will be about you.\n\n                                                          DADDY.\n\n\n\"Gorry! that's worse than the other,\" groaned Higgins, when he had\nfinished the note. \"There's actually nothing in it! Wouldn't you\nthink--if a man wrote anything at such a time--that he'd 'a' wrote\nsomething that had some sense to it--something that one could get hold\nof, and find out who the boy is?\"\n\nThere was no answering this. The assembled men could only grunt and nod\nin agreement, which, after all, was no real help.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nDISCORDS\n\nThe dead man found in Farmer Holly's barn created a decided stir in the\nvillage of Hinsdale. The case was a peculiar one for many reasons.\nFirst, because of the boy--Hinsdale supposed it knew boys, but it felt\ninclined to change its mind after seeing this one. Second, because of\nthe circumstances. The boy and his father had entered the town like\ntramps, yet Higgins, who talked freely of his having given the pair a\n\"lift\" on that very evening, did not hesitate to declare that he did\nnot believe them to be ordinary tramps at all.\n\nAs there had been little found in the dead man's pockets, save the two\nnotes, and as nobody could be found who wanted the violins, there\nseemed to be nothing to do but to turn the body over to the town for\nburial. Nothing was said of this to David; indeed, as little as\npossible was said to David about anything after that morning when\nHiggins had given him his father's letter. At that time the men had\nmade one more effort to \"get track of SOMETHING,\" as Higgins had\ndespairingly put it. But the boy's answers to their questions were\nanything but satisfying, anything but helpful, and were often most\ndisconcerting. The boy was, in fact, regarded by most of the men, after\nthat morning, as being \"a little off\"; and was hence let severely alone.\n\nWho the man was the town authorities certainly did not know, neither\ncould they apparently find out. His name, as written by himself, was\nunreadable. His notes told nothing; his son could tell little more--of\nconsequence. A report, to be sure, did come from the village, far up\nthe mountain, that such a man and boy had lived in a hut that was\nalmost inaccessible; but even this did not help solve the mystery.\n\nDavid was left at the Holly farmhouse, though Simeon Holly mentally\ndeclared that he should lose no time in looking about for some one to\ntake the boy away.\n\nOn that first day Higgins, picking up the reins preparatory to driving\nfrom the yard, had said, with a nod of his head toward David:--\n\n\"Well, how about it, Holly? Shall we leave him here till we find\nsomebody that wants him?\"\n\n\"Why, y--yes, I suppose so,\" hesitated Simeon Holly, with uncordial\naccent.\n\nBut his wife, hovering in the background, hastened forward at once.\n\n\"Oh, yes; yes, indeed,\" she urged. \"I'm sure he--he won't be a mite of\ntrouble, Simeon.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" conceded Simeon Holly darkly. \"Neither, it is safe to\nsay, will he be anything else--worth anything.\"\n\n\"That's it exactly,\" spoke up Streeter, from his seat in the wagon. \"If\nI thought he'd be worth his salt, now, I'd take him myself; but--well,\nlook at him this minute,\" he finished, with a disdainful shrug.\n\nDavid, on the lowest step, was very evidently not hearing a word of\nwhat was being said. With his sensitive face illumined, he was again\nporing over his father's letter.\n\nSomething in the sudden quiet cut through his absorption as the noisy\nhum of voices had not been able to do, and he raised his head. His eyes\nwere starlike.\n\n\"I'm so glad father told me what to do,\" he breathed. \"It'll be easier\nnow.\"\n\nReceiving no answer from the somewhat awkwardly silent men, he went on,\nas if in explanation:--\n\n\"You know he's waiting for me--in the far country, I mean. He said he\nwas. And when you've got somebody waiting, you don't mind staying\nbehind yourself for a little while. Besides, I've GOT to stay to find\nout about the beautiful world, you know, so I can tell him, when _I_\ngo. That's the way I used to do back home on the mountain, you\nsee,--tell him about things. Lots of days we'd go to walk; then, when\nwe got home, he'd have me tell him, with my violin, what I'd seen. And\nnow he says I'm to stay here.\"\n\n\"Here!\" It was the quick, stern voice of Simeon Holly.\n\n\"Yes,\" nodded David earnestly; \"to learn about the beautiful world.\nDon't you remember? And he said I was not to want to go back to my\nmountains; that I would not need to, anyway, because the mountains, and\nthe sky, and the birds and squirrels and brooks are really in my\nviolin, you know. And--\"  But with an angry frown Simeon Holly stalked\naway, motioning Larson to follow him; and with a merry glance and a low\nchuckle Higgins turned his horse about and drove from the yard. A\nmoment later David found himself alone with Mrs. Holly, who was looking\nat him with wistful, though slightly fearful eyes.\n\n\"Did you have all the breakfast you wanted?\" she asked timidly,\nresorting, as she had resorted the night before, to the everyday things\nof her world in the hope that they might make this strange little boy\nseem less wild, and more nearly human.\n\n\"Oh, yes, thank you.\" David's eyes had strayed back to the note in his\nhand. Suddenly he looked up, a new something in his eyes. \"What is it\nto be a--a tramp?\" he asked. \"Those men said daddy and I were tramps.\"\n\n\"A tramp? Oh--er--why, just a--a tramp,\" stammered Mrs. Holly. \"But\nnever mind that, David. I--I wouldn't think any more about it.\"\n\n\"But what is a tramp?\" persisted David, a smouldering fire beginning to\nshow in his eyes. \"Because if they meant THIEVES--\"\n\n\"No, no, David,\" interrupted Mrs. Holly soothingly. \"They never meant\nthieves at all.\"\n\n\"Then, what is it to be a tramp?\"\n\n\"Why, it's just to--to tramp,\" explained Mrs. Holly desperately;--\"walk\nalong the road from one town to another, and--and not live in a house\nat all.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" David's face cleared. \"That's all right, then. I'd love to be a\ntramp, and so'd father. And we were tramps, sometimes, too, 'cause lots\nof times, in the summer, we didn't stay in the cabin hardly any--just\nlived out of doors all day and all night. Why, I never knew really what\nthe pine trees were saying till I heard them at night, lying under\nthem. You know what I mean. You've heard them, haven't you?\"\n\n\"At night? Pine trees?\" stammered Mrs. Holly helplessly.\n\n\"Yes. Oh, haven't you ever heard them at night?\" cried the boy, in his\nvoice a very genuine sympathy as for a grievous loss. \"Why, then, if\nyou've only heard them daytimes, you don't know a bit what pine trees\nreally are. But I can tell you. Listen! This is what they say,\"\nfinished the boy, whipping his violin from its case, and, after a swift\ntesting of the strings, plunging into a weird, haunting little melody.\n\nIn the doorway, Mrs. Holly, bewildered, yet bewitched, stood\nmotionless, her eyes half-fearfully, half-longingly fixed on David's\nglorified face. She was still in the same position when Simeon Holly\ncame around the corner of the house.\n\n\"Well, Ellen,\" he began, with quiet scorn, after a moment's stern\nwatching of the scene before him, \"have you nothing better to do this\nmorning than to listen to this minstrel fellow?\"\n\n\"Oh, Simeon! Why, yes, of course. I--I forgot--what I was doing,\"\nfaltered Mrs. Holly, flushing guiltily from neck to brow as she turned\nand hurried into the house.\n\nDavid, on the porch steps, seemed to have heard nothing. He was still\nplaying, his rapt gaze on the distant sky-line, when Simeon Holly\nturned upon him with disapproving eyes.\n\n\"See here, boy, can't you do anything but fiddle?\" he demanded. Then,\nas David still continued to play, he added sharply:  \"Did n't you hear\nme, boy?\"\n\nThe music stopped abruptly. David looked up with the slightly dazed air\nof one who has been summoned as from another world.\n\n\"Did you speak to me, sir?\" he asked.\n\n\"I did--twice. I asked if you never did anything but play that fiddle.\"\n\n\"You mean at home?\" David's face expressed mild wonder without a trace\nof anger or resentment. \"Why, yes, of course. I couldn't play ALL the\ntime, you know. I had to eat and sleep and study my books; and every\nday we went to walk--like tramps, as you call them,\" he elucidated, his\nface brightening with obvious delight at being able, for once, to\nexplain matters in terms that he felt sure would be understood.\n\n\"Tramps, indeed!\" muttered Simeon Holly, under his breath. Then,\nsharply: \"Did you never perform any useful labor, boy? Were your days\nalways spent in this ungodly idleness?\"\n\nAgain David frowned in mild wonder.\n\n\"Oh, I wasn't idle, sir. Father said I must never be that. He said\nevery instrument was needed in the great Orchestra of Life; and that I\nwas one, you know, even if I was only a little boy. And he said if I\nkept still and didn't do my part, the harmony wouldn't be complete,\nand--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, but never mind that now, boy,\" interrupted Simeon Holly,\nwith harsh impatience. \"I mean, did he never set you to work--real\nwork?\"\n\n\"Work?\" David meditated again. Then suddenly his face cleared. \"Oh,\nyes, sir, he said I had a beautiful work to do, and that it was waiting\nfor me out in the world. That's why we came down from the mountain, you\nknow, to find it. Is that what you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, no,\" retorted the man, \"I can't say that it was. I was referring\nto work--real work about the house. Did you never do any of that?\"\n\nDavid gave a relieved laugh.\n\n\"Oh, you mean getting the meals and tidying up the house,\" he replied.\n\"Oh, yes, I did that with father, only\"--his face grew wistful--\"I'm\nafraid I didn't do it very well. My bacon was never as nice and crisp\nas father's, and the fire was always spoiling my potatoes.\"\n\n\"Humph! bacon and potatoes, indeed!\" scorned Simeon Holly. \"Well, boy,\nwe call that women's work down here. We set men to something else. Do\nyou see that woodpile by the shed door?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Very good. In the kitchen you'll find an empty woodbox. Do you think\nyou could fill it with wood from that woodpile? You'll find plenty of\nshort, small sticks already chopped.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, sir, I'd like to,\" nodded David, hastily but carefully\ntucking his violin into its case. A minute later he had attacked the\nwoodpile with a will; and Simeon Holly, after a sharply watchful\nglance, had turned away.\n\nBut the woodbox, after all, was not filled. At least, it was not filled\nimmediately, for at the very beginning of gathering the second armful\nof wood, David picked up a stick that had long lain in one position on\nthe ground, thereby disclosing sundry and diverse crawling things of\nmany legs, which filled David's soul with delight, and drove away every\nthought of the empty woodbox.\n\nIt was only a matter of some strength and more patience, and still more\ntime, to overturn other and bigger sticks, to find other and bigger of\nthe many-legged, many-jointed creatures. One, indeed, was so very\nwonderful that David, with a whoop of glee, summoned Mrs. Holly from\nthe shed doorway to come and see.\n\nSo urgent was his plea that Mrs. Holly came with hurried steps--but she\nwent away with steps even more hurried; and David, sitting back on his\nwoodpile seat, was left to wonder why she should scream and shudder and\nsay \"Ugh-h-h!\" at such a beautiful, interesting thing as was this\nlittle creature who lived in her woodpile.\n\nEven then David did not think of that empty woodbox waiting behind the\nkitchen stove. This time it was a butterfly, a big black butterfly\nbanded with gold; and it danced and fluttered all through the back yard\nand out into the garden, David delightedly following with soft-treading\nsteps, and movements that would not startle. From the garden to the\norchard, and from the orchard back to the garden danced the\nbutterfly--and David; and in the garden, near the house, David came\nupon Mrs. Holly's pansy-bed. Even the butterfly was forgotten then, for\ndown in the path by the pansy-bed David dropped to his knees in\nveritable worship.\n\n\"Why, you're just like little people,\" he cried softly. \"You've got\nfaces; and some of you are happy, and some of you are sad. And you--you\nbig spotted yellow one--you're laughing at me. Oh, I'm going to play\nyou--all of you. You'll make such a pretty song, you're so different\nfrom each other!\" And David leaped lightly to his feet and ran around\nto the side porch for his violin.\n\nFive minutes later, Simeon Holly, coming into the kitchen, heard the\nsound of a violin through the open window. At the same moment his eyes\nfell on the woodbox, empty save for a few small sticks at the bottom.\nWith an angry frown he strode through the outer door and around the\ncorner of the house to the garden. At once then he came upon David,\nsitting Turk-fashion in the middle of the path before the pansy-bed,\nhis violin at his chin, and his whole face aglow.\n\n\"Well, boy, is this the way you fill the woodbox?\" demanded the man\ncrisply.\n\nDavid shook his head.\n\n\"Oh, no, sir, this isn't filling the woodbox,\" he laughed, softening\nhis music, but not stopping it. \"Did you think that was what I was\nplaying? It's the flowers here that I'm playing--the little faces, like\npeople, you know. See, this is that big yellow one over there that's\nlaughing,\" he finished, letting the music under his fingers burst into\na gay little melody.\n\nSimeon Holly raised an imperious hand; and at the gesture David stopped\nhis melody in the middle of a run, his eyes flying wide open in plain\nwonderment.\n\n\"You mean--I'm not playing--right?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm not talking of your playing,\" retorted Simeon Holly severely. \"I'm\ntalking of that woodbox I asked you to fill.\"\n\nDavid's face cleared.\n\n\"Oh, yes, sir. I'll go and do it,\" he nodded, getting cheerfully to his\nfeet.\n\n\"But I told you to do it before.\"\n\nDavid's eyes grew puzzled again.\n\n\"I know, sir, and I started to,\" he answered, with the obvious patience\nof one who finds himself obliged to explain what should be a\nself-evident fact; \"but I saw so many beautiful things, one after\nanother, and when I found these funny little flower-people I just had\nto play them. Don't you see?\"\n\n\"No, I can't say that I do, when I'd already told you to fill the\nwoodbox,\" rejoined the man, with uncompromising coldness.\n\n\"You mean--even then that I ought to have filled the woodbox first?\"\n\n\"I certainly do.\"\n\nDavid's eyes flew wide open again.\n\n\"But my song--I'd have lost it!\" he exclaimed. \"And father said always\nwhen a song came to me to play it at once. Songs are like the mists of\nthe morning and the rainbows, you know, and they don't stay with you\nlong. You just have to catch them quick, before they go. Now, don't you\nsee?\"\n\nBut Simeon Holly, with a despairingly scornful gesture, had turned\naway; and David, after a moment's following him with wistful eyes,\nsoberly walked toward the kitchen door. Two minutes later he was\nindustriously working at his task of filling the woodbox.\n\nThat for David the affair was not satisfactorily settled was evidenced\nby his thoughtful countenance and preoccupied air, however; nor were\nmatters helped any by the question David put to Mr. Holly just before\ndinner.\n\n\"Do you mean,\" he asked, \"that because I didn't fill the woodbox right\naway, I was being a discord?\"\n\n\"You were what?\" demanded the amazed Simeon Holly.\n\n\"Being a discord--playing out of tune, you know,\" explained David, with\npatient earnestness. \"Father said--\" But again Simeon Holly had turned\nirritably away; and David was left with his perplexed questions still\nunanswered.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nNUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE\n\nFor some time after dinner, that first day, David watched Mrs. Holly in\nsilence while she cleared the table and began to wash the dishes.\n\n\"Do you want me to--help?\" he asked at last, a little wistfully.\n\nMrs. Holly, with a dubious glance at the boy's brown little hands,\nshook her head.\n\n\"No, I don't. No, thank you,\" she amended her answer.\n\nFor another sixty seconds David was silent; then, still more wistfully,\nhe asked:--\n\n\"Are all these things you've been doing all day 'useful labor'?\"\n\nMrs. Holly lifted dripping hands from the dishpan and held them\nsuspended for an amazed instant.\n\n\"Are they--Why, of course they are! What a silly question! What put\nthat idea into your head, child?\"\n\n\"Mr. Holly; and you see it's so different from what father used to call\nthem.\"\n\n\"Different?\"\n\n\"Yes. He said they were a necessary nuisance,--dishes, and getting\nmeals, and clearing up,--and he didn't do half as many of them as you\ndo, either.\"\n\n\"Nuisance, indeed!\" Mrs. Holly resumed her dishwashing with some\nasperity. \"Well, I should think that might have been just about like\nhim.\"\n\n\"Yes, it was. He was always that way,\" nodded David pleasantly. Then,\nafter a moment, he queried: \"But aren't you going to walk at all\nto-day?\"\n\n\"To walk? Where?\"\n\n\"Why, through the woods and fields--anywhere.\"\n\n\"Walking in the woods, NOW--JUST WALKING? Land's sake, boy, I've got\nsomething else to do!\"\n\n\"Oh, that's too bad, isn't it?\" David's face expressed sympathetic\nregret. \"And it's such a nice day! Maybe it'll rain by tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Maybe it will,\" retorted Mrs. Holly, with slightly uplifted eyebrows\nand an expressive glance. \"But whether it does or does n't won't make\nany difference in my going to walk, I guess.\"\n\n\"Oh, won't it?\" beamed David, his face changing. \"I'm so glad! I don't\nmind the rain, either. Father and I used to go in the rain lots of\ntimes, only, of course, we couldn't take our violins then, so we used\nto like the pleasant days better. But there are some things you find on\nrainy days that you couldn't find any other time, aren't there? The\ndance of the drops on the leaves, and the rush of the rain when the\nwind gets behind it. Don't you love to feel it, out in the open spaces,\nwhere the wind just gets a good chance to push?\"\n\nMrs. Holly stared. Then she shivered and threw up her hands with a\ngesture of hopeless abandonment.\n\n\"Land's sake, boy!\" she ejaculated feebly, as she turned back to her\nwork.\n\nFrom dishes to sweeping, and from sweeping to dusting, hurried Mrs.\nHolly, going at last into the somber parlor, always carefully guarded\nfrom sun and air. Watching her, mutely, David trailed behind, his eyes\nstaring a little as they fell upon the multitude of objects that parlor\ncontained: the haircloth chairs, the long sofa, the marble-topped\ntable, the curtains, cushions, spreads, and \"throws,\" the innumerable\nmats and tidies, the hair-wreath, the wax flowers under their glass\ndome, the dried grasses, the marvelous bouquets of scarlet, green, and\npurple everlastings, the stones and shells and many-sized, many-shaped\nvases arranged as if in line of battle along the corner shelves.\n\n\"Y--yes, you may come in,\" called Mrs. Holly, glancing back at the\nhesitating boy in the doorway. \"But you mustn't touch anything. I'm\ngoing to dust.\"\n\n\"But I haven't seen this room before,\" ruminated David.\n\n\"Well, no,\" deigned Mrs. Holly, with just a touch of superiority. \"We\ndon't use this room common, little boy, nor the bedroom there, either.\nThis is the company room, for ministers and funerals, and--\" She\nstopped hastily, with a quick look at David; but the boy did not seem\nto have heard.\n\n\"And doesn't anybody live here in this house, but just you and Mr.\nHolly, and Mr. Perry Larson?\" he asked, still looking wonderingly about\nhim.\n\n\"No, not--now.\" Mrs. Holly drew in her breath with a little catch, and\nglanced at the framed portrait of a little boy on the wall.\n\n\"But you've got such a lot of rooms and--and things,\" remarked David.\n\"Why, daddy and I only had two rooms, and not hardly any THINGS. It was\nso--different, you know, in my home.\"\n\n\"I should say it might have been!\" Mrs. Holly began to dust hurriedly,\nbut carefully. Her voice still carried its hint of superiority.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" smiled David. \"But you say you don't use this room much, so\nthat helps.\"\n\n\"Helps!\" In her stupefaction Mrs. Holly stopped her work and stared.\n\n\"Why, yes. I mean, you've got so many other rooms you can live in\nthose. You don't HAVE to live in here.\"\n\n\"'Have to live in here'!\" ejaculated the woman, still too\nuncomprehending to be anything but amazed.\n\n\"Yes. But do you have to KEEP all these things, and clean them and\nclean them, like this, every day? Couldn't you give them to somebody,\nor throw them away?\"\n\n\"Throw--these--things--away!\" With a wild sweep of her arms, the\nhorrified woman seemed to be trying to encompass in a protective\nembrace each last endangered treasure of mat and tidy. \"Boy, are you\ncrazy? These things are--are valuable. They cost money, and time\nand--and labor. Don't you know beautiful things when you see them?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I love BEAUTIFUL things,\" smiled David, with unconsciously\nrude emphasis. \"And up on the mountain I had them always. There was the\nsunrise, and the sunset, and the moon and the stars, and my Silver\nLake, and the cloud-boats that sailed--\"\n\nBut Mrs. Holly, with a vexed gesture, stopped him.\n\n\"Never mind, little boy. I might have known--brought up as you have\nbeen. Of course you could not appreciate such things as these. Throw\nthem away, indeed!\" And she fell to work again; but this time her\nfingers carried a something in their touch that was almost like the\ncaress a mother might bestow upon an aggrieved child.\n\nDavid, vaguely disturbed and uncomfortable, watched her with troubled\neyes; then, apologetically, he explained:--\n\n\"It was only that I thought if you didn't have to clean so many of\nthese things, you could maybe go to walk more--to-day, and other days,\nyou know. You said--you didn't have time,\" he reminded her.\n\nBut Mrs. Holly only shook her head and sighed:--\n\n\"Well, well, never mind, little boy. I dare say you meant all right.\nYou couldn't understand, of course.\"\n\nAnd David, after another moment's wistful eyeing of the caressing\nfingers, turned about and wandered out onto the side porch. A minute\nlater, having seated himself on the porch steps, he had taken from his\npocket two small pieces of folded paper. And then, through tear-dimmed\neyes, he read once more his father's letter.\n\n\"He said I mustn't grieve, for that would grieve him,\" murmured the\nboy, after a time, his eyes on the far-away hills. \"And he said if I'd\nplay, my mountains would come to me here, and I'd really be at home up\nthere. He said in my violin were all those things I'm wanting--so bad!\"\n\nWith a little choking breath, David tucked the note back into his\npocket and reached for his violin.\n\nSome time later, Mrs. Holly, dusting the chairs in the parlor, stopped\nher work, tiptoed to the door, and listened breathlessly. When she\nturned back, still later, to her work, her eyes were wet.\n\n\"I wonder why, when he plays, I always get to thinking of--John,\" she\nsighed to herself, as she picked up her dusting-cloth.\n\nAfter supper that night, Simeon Holly and his wife again sat on the\nkitchen porch, resting from the labor of the day. Simeon's eyes were\nclosed. His wife's were on the dim outlines of the shed, the barn, the\nroad, or a passing horse and wagon. David, sitting on the steps, was\nwatching the moon climb higher and higher above the tree-tops. After a\ntime he slipped into the house and came out with his violin.\n\nAt the first long-drawn note of sweetness, Simeon Holly opened his eyes\nand sat up, stern-lipped. But his wife laid a timid hand on his arm.\n\n\"Don't say anything, please,\" she entreated softly. \"Let him play, just\nfor to-night. He's lonesome--poor little fellow.\" And Simeon Holly,\nwith a frowning shrug of his shoulders, sat back in his chair.\n\nLater, it was Mrs. Holly herself who stopped the music by saying:\n\"Come, David, it's bedtime for little boys. I'll go upstairs with you.\"\nAnd she led the way into the house and lighted the candle for him.\n\nUpstairs, in the little room over the kitchen, David found himself once\nmore alone. As before, the little yellow-white nightshirt lay over the\nchair-back; and as before, Mrs. Holly had brushed away a tear as she\nhad placed it there. As before, too, the big four-posted bed loomed\ntall and formidable in the corner. But this time the coverlet and sheet\nwere turned back invitingly--Mrs. Holly had been much disturbed to find\nthat David had slept on the floor the night before.\n\nOnce more, with his back carefully turned toward the impaled bugs and\nmoths on the wall, David undressed himself. Then, before blowing out\nthe candle, he went to the window kneeled down, and looked up at the\nmoon through the trees.\n\nDavid was sorely puzzled. He was beginning to wonder just what was to\nbecome of himself.\n\nHis father had said that out in the world there was a beautiful work\nfor him to do; but what was it? How was he to find it? Or how was he to\ndo it if he did find it? And another thing; where was he to live? Could\nhe stay where he was? It was not home, to be sure; but there was the\nlittle room over the kitchen where he might sleep, and there was the\nkind woman who smiled at him sometimes with the sad, far-away look in\nher eyes that somehow hurt. He would not like, now, to leave her--with\ndaddy gone.\n\nThere were the gold-pieces, too; and concerning these David was equally\npuzzled. What should he do with them? He did not need them--the kind\nwoman was giving him plenty of food, so that he did not have to go to\nthe store and buy; and there was nothing else, apparently, that he\ncould use them for. They were heavy, and disagreeable to carry; yet he\ndid not like to throw them away, nor to let anybody know that he had\nthem: he had been called a thief just for one little piece, and what\nwould they say if they knew he had all those others?\n\nDavid remembered now, suddenly, that his father had said to hide\nthem--to hide them until he needed them. David was relieved at once.\nWhy had he not thought of it before? He knew just the place, too,--the\nlittle cupboard behind the chimney there in this very room! And with a\nsatisfied sigh, David got to his feet, gathered all the little yellow\ndisks from his pockets, and tucked them well out of sight behind the\npiles of books on the cupboard shelves. There, too, he hid the watch;\nbut the little miniature of the angel-mother he slipped back into one\nof his pockets.\n\nDavid's second morning at the farmhouse was not unlike the first,\nexcept that this time, when Simeon Holly asked him to fill the woodbox,\nDavid resolutely ignored every enticing bug and butterfly, and kept\nrigorously to the task before him until it was done.\n\nHe was in the kitchen when, just before dinner, Perry Larson came into\nthe room with a worried frown on his face.\n\n\"Mis' Holly, would ye mind just steppin' to the side door? There's a\nwoman an' a little boy there, an' somethin' ails 'em. She can't talk\nEnglish, an' I'm blest if I can make head nor tail out of the lingo she\nDOES talk. But maybe you can.\"\n\n\"Why, Perry, I don't know--\" began Mrs. Holly. But she turned at once\ntoward the door.\n\nOn the porch steps stood a very pretty, but frightened-looking young\nwoman with a boy perhaps ten years old at her side. Upon catching sight\nof Mrs. Holly she burst into a torrent of unintelligible words,\nsupplemented by numerous and vehement gestures.\n\nMrs. Holly shrank back, and cast appealing eyes toward her husband who\nat that moment had come across the yard from the barn.\n\n\"Simeon, can you tell what she wants?\"\n\nAt sight of the newcomer on the scene, the strange woman began again,\nwith even more volubility.\n\n\"No,\" said Simeon Holly, after a moment's scowling scrutiny of the\ngesticulating woman. \"She's talking French, I think. And she\nwants--something.\"\n\n\"Gosh! I should say she did,\" muttered Perry Larson. \"An' whatever 't\nis, she wants it powerful bad.\"\n\n\"Are you hungry?\" questioned Mrs. Holly timidly.\n\n\"Can't you speak English at all?\" demanded Simeon Holly.\n\nThe woman looked from one to the other with the piteous, pleading eyes\nof the stranger in the strange land who cannot understand or make\nothers understand. She had turned away with a despairing shake of her\nhead, when suddenly she gave a wild cry of joy and wheeled about, her\nwhole face alight.\n\nThe Hollys and Perry Larson saw then that David had come out onto the\nporch and was speaking to the woman--and his words were just as\nunintelligible as the woman's had been.\n\nMrs. Holly and Perry Larson stared. Simeon Holly interrupted David with\na sharp:--\n\n\"Do you, then, understand this woman, boy?\"\n\n\"Why, yes! Didn't you? She's lost her way, and--\" But the woman had\nhurried forward and was pouring her story into David's ears.\n\nAt its conclusion David turned to find the look of stupefaction still\non the others' faces.\n\n\"Well, what does she want?\" asked Simeon Holly crisply.\n\n\"She wants to find the way to Francois Lavelle's house. He's her\nhusband's brother. She came in on the train this morning. Her husband\nstopped off a minute somewhere, she says, and got left behind. He could\ntalk English, but she can't. She's only been in this country a week.\nShe came from France.\"\n\n\"Gorry! Won't ye listen ter that, now?\" cried Perry Larson admiringly.\n\"Reads her just like a book, don't he? There's a French family over in\nWest Hinsdale--two of 'em, I think. What'll ye bet 't ain't one o'\nthem?\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" acceded Simeon Holly, his eyes bent disapprovingly on\nDavid's face. It was plain to be seen that Simeon Holly's attention was\noccupied by David, not the woman.\n\n\"An', say, Mr. Holly,\" resumed Perry Larson, a little excitedly, \"you\nknow I was goin' over ter West Hinsdale in a day or two ter see Harlow\nabout them steers. Why can't I go this afternoon an' tote her an' the\nkid along?\"\n\n\"Very well,\" nodded Simeon Holly curtly, his eyes still on David's face.\n\nPerry Larson turned to the woman, and by a flourish of his arms and a\njumble of broken English attempted to make her understand that he was\nto take her where she undoubtedly wished to go. The woman still looked\nuncomprehending, however, and David promptly came to the rescue, saying\na few rapid words that quickly brought a flood of delighted\nunderstanding to the woman's face.\n\n\"Can't you ask her if she's hungry?\" ventured Mrs. Holly, then.\n\n\"She says no, thank you,\" translated David, with a smile, when he had\nreceived his answer. \"But the boy says he is, if you please.\"\n\n\"Then, tell them to come into the kitchen,\" directed Mrs. Holly,\nhurrying into the house.\n\n\"So you're French, are you?\" said Simeon Holly to David.\n\n\"French? Oh, no, sir,\" smiled David, proudly. \"I'm an American. Father\nsaid I was. He said I was born in this country.\"\n\n\"But how comes it you can speak French like that?\"\n\n\"Why, I learned it.\" Then, divining that his words were still\nunconvincing, he added: \"Same as I learned German and other things with\nfather, out of books, you know. Didn't you learn French when you were a\nlittle boy?\"\n\n\"Humph!\" vouchsafed Simeon Holly, stalking away without answering the\nquestion.\n\nImmediately after dinner Perry Larson drove away with the woman and the\nlittle boy. The woman's face was wreathed with smiles, and her last\nadoring glance was for David, waving his hand to her from the porch\nsteps.\n\nIn the afternoon David took his violin and went off toward the hill\nbehind the house for a walk. He had asked Mrs. Holly to accompany him,\nbut she had refused, though she was not sweeping or dusting at the\ntime. She was doing nothing more important, apparently, than making\nholes in a piece of white cloth, and sewing them up again with a needle\nand thread.\n\nDavid had then asked Mr. Holly to go; but his refusal was even more\nstrangely impatient than his wife's had been.\n\n\"And why, pray, should I go for a useless walk now--or any time, for\nthat matter?\" he demanded sharply.\n\nDavid had shrunk back unconsciously, though he had still smiled.\n\n\"Oh, but it wouldn't be a useless walk, sir. Father said nothing was\nuseless that helped to keep us in tune, you know.\"\n\n\"In tune!\"\n\n\"I mean, you looked as father used to look sometimes, when he felt out\nof tune. And he always said there was nothing like a walk to put him\nback again. I--I was feeling a little out of tune myself to-day, and I\nthought, by the way you looked, that you were, too.  So I asked you to\ngo to walk.\"\n\n\"Humph! Well, I--That will do, boy. No impertinence, you understand!\"\nAnd he had turned away in very obvious anger.\n\nDavid, with a puzzled sorrow in his heart had started alone then, on\nhis walk.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\"YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!\"\n\nIt was Saturday night, and the end of David's third day at the\nfarmhouse. Upstairs, in the hot little room over the kitchen, the boy\nknelt at the window and tried to find a breath of cool air from the\nhills. Downstairs on the porch Simeon Holly and his wife discussed the\nevents of the past few days, and talked of what should be done with\nDavid.\n\n\"But what shall we do with him?\" moaned Mrs. Holly at last, breaking a\nlong silence that had fallen between them. \"What can we do with him?\nDoesn't anybody want him?\"\n\n\"No, of course, nobody wants him,\" retorted her husband relentlessly.\n\nAnd at the words a small figure in a yellow-white nightshirt stopped\nshort. David, violin in hand, had fled from the little hot room, and\nstood now just inside the kitchen door.\n\n\"Who can want a child that has been brought up in that heathenish\nfashion?\" continued Simeon Holly. \"According to his own story, even his\nfather did nothing but play the fiddle and tramp through the woods day\nin and day out, with an occasional trip to the mountain village to get\nfood and clothing when they had absolutely nothing to eat and wear. Of\ncourse nobody wants him!\"\n\nDavid, at the kitchen door, caught his breath chokingly. Then he sped\nacross the floor to the back hall, and on through the long sheds to the\nhayloft in the barn--the place where his father seemed always nearest.\n\nDavid was frightened and heartsick. NOBODY WANTED HIM. He had heard it\nwith his own ears, so there was no mistake. What now about all those\nlong days and nights ahead before he might go, violin in hand, to meet\nhis father in that far-away country? How was he to live those days and\nnights if nobody wanted him? How was his violin to speak in a voice\nthat was true and pure and full, and tell of the beautiful world, as\nhis father had said that it must do? David quite cried aloud at the\nthought. Then he thought of something else that his father had said:\n\"Remember this, my boy,--in your violin lie all the things you long\nfor. You have only to play, and the broad skies of your mountain home\nwill be over you, and the dear friends and comrades of your mountain\nforests will be all about you.\"  With a quick cry David raised his\nviolin and drew the bow across the strings.\n\nBack on the porch at that moment Mrs. Holly was saying:--\n\n\"Of course there's the orphan asylum, or maybe the poorhouse--if they'd\ntake him; but--Simeon,\" she broke off sharply, \"where's that child\nplaying now?\"\n\nSimeon listened with intent ears.\n\n\"In the barn, I should say.\"\n\n\"But he'd gone to bed!\"\n\n\"And he'll go to bed again,\" asserted Simeon Holly grimly, as he rose\nto his feet and stalked across the moonlit yard to the barn.\n\nAs before, Mrs. Holly followed him, and as before, both involuntarily\npaused just inside the barn door to listen. No runs and trills and\nrollicking bits of melody floated down the stairway to-night. The notes\nwere long-drawn, and plaintively sweet; and they rose and swelled and\ndied almost into silence while the man and the woman by the door stood\nlistening.\n\nThey were back in the long ago--Simeon Holly and his wife--back with a\nboy of their own who had made those same rafters ring with shouts of\nlaughter, and who, also, had played the violin--though not like this;\nand the same thought had come to each: \"What if, after all, it were\nJohn playing all alone in the moonlight!\"\n\nIt had not been the violin, in the end, that had driven John Holly from\nhome. It had been the possibilities in a piece of crayon. All through\nchildhood the boy had drawn his beloved \"pictures\" on every inviting\nspace that offered,--whether it were the \"best-room\" wall-paper, or the\nfly leaf of the big plush album,--and at eighteen he had announced his\ndetermination to be an artist. For a year after that Simeon Holly\nfought with all the strength of a stubborn will, banished chalk and\ncrayon from the house, and set the boy to homely tasks that left no\ntime for anything but food and sleep--then John ran away.\n\nThat was fifteen years ago, and they had not seen him since; though two\nunanswered letters in Simeon Holly's desk testified that perhaps this,\nat least, was not the boy's fault.\n\nIt was not of the grown-up John, the willful boy and runaway son,\nhowever, that Simeon Holly and his wife were thinking, as they stood\njust inside the barn door; it was of Baby John, the little curly-headed\nfellow that had played at their knees, frolicked in this very barn, and\nnestled in their arms when the day was done.\n\nMrs. Holly spoke first--and it was not as she had spoken on the porch.\n\n\"Simeon,\" she began tremulously, \"that dear child must go to bed!\" And\nshe hurried across the floor and up the stairs, followed by her\nhusband. \"Come, David,\" she said, as she reached the top; \"it's time\nlittle boys were asleep! Come!\"\n\nHer voice was low, and not quite steady. To David her voice sounded as\nher eyes looked when there was in them the far-away something that\nhurt. Very slowly he came forward into the moonlight, his gaze\nsearching the woman's face long and earnestly.\n\n\"And do you--want me?\" he faltered.\n\nThe woman drew in her breath with a little sob. Before her stood the\nslender figure in the yellow-white gown--John's gown. Into her eyes\nlooked those other eyes, dark and wistful,--like John's eyes. And her\narms ached with emptiness.\n\n\"Yes, yes, for my very own--and for always!\" she cried with sudden\npassion, clasping the little form close. \"For always!\"\n\nAnd David sighed his content.\n\nSimeon Holly's lips parted, but they closed again with no words said.\nThe man turned then, with a curiously baffled look, and stalked down\nthe stairs.\n\nOn the porch long minutes later, when once more David had gone to bed,\nSimeon Holly said coldly to his wife:--\n\n\"I suppose you realize, Ellen, just what you've pledged yourself to, by\nthat absurd outburst of yours in the barn to-night--and all because\nthat ungodly music and the moonshine had gone to your head!\"\n\n\"But I want the boy, Simeon. He--he makes me think of--John.\"\n\nHarsh lines came to the man's mouth, but there was a perceptible shake\nin his voice as he answered:--\n\n\"We're not talking of John, Ellen. We're talking of this irresponsible,\nhardly sane boy upstairs. He can work, I suppose, if he's taught, and\nin that way he won't perhaps be a dead loss. Still, he's another mouth\nto feed, and that counts now. There's the note, you know,--it's due in\nAugust.\"\n\n\"But you say there's money--almost enough for it--in the bank.\" Mrs.\nHolly's voice was anxiously apologetic.\n\n\"Yes, I know\" vouchsafed the man. \"But almost enough is not quite\nenough.\"\n\n\"But there's time--more than two months. It isn't due till the last of\nAugust, Simeon.\"\n\n\"I know, I know. Meanwhile, there's the boy. What are you going to do\nwith him?\"\n\n\"Why, can't you use him--on the farm--a little?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. I doubt it, though,\" gloomed the man. \"One can't hoe corn nor\npull weeds with a fiddle-bow--and that's all he seems to know how to\nhandle.\"\n\n\"But he can learn--and he does play beautifully,\" murmured the woman;\nwhenever before had Ellen Holly ventured to use words of argument with\nher husband, and in extenuation, too, of an act of her own!\n\nThere was no reply except a muttered \"Humph!\" under the breath. Then\nSimeon Holly rose and stalked into the house.\n\nThe next day was Sunday, and Sunday at the farmhouse was a thing of\nstern repression and solemn silence. In Simeon Holly's veins ran the\nblood of the Puritans, and he was more than strict as to what he\nconsidered right and wrong. When half-trained for the ministry,\nill-health had forced him to resort to a less confining life, though\nnever had it taken from him the uncompromising rigor of his views. It\nwas a distinct shock to him, therefore, on this Sunday morning to be\nawakened by a peal of music such as the little house had never known\nbefore. All the while that he was thrusting his indignant self into his\nclothing, the runs and turns and crashing chords whirled about him\nuntil it seemed that a whole orchestra must be imprisoned in the little\nroom over the kitchen, so skillful was the boy's double stopping.\nSimeon Holly was white with anger when he finally hurried down the hall\nand threw open David's bedroom door.\n\n\"Boy, what do you mean by this?\" he demanded.\n\nDavid laughed gleefully.\n\n\"And didn't you know?\" he asked. \"Why, I thought my music would tell\nyou. I was so happy, so glad! The birds in the trees woke me up\nsinging, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and the sun came over the hill\nthere and said, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and the little\ntree-branch tapped on my window pane and said 'You're wanted--you're\nwanted!' And I just had to take up my violin and tell you about it!\"\n\n\"But it's Sunday--the Lord's Day,\" remonstrated the man sternly.\n\nDavid stood motionless, his eyes questioning.\n\n\"Are you quite a heathen, then?\" catechised the man sharply. \"Have they\nnever told you anything about God, boy?\"\n\n\"Oh, 'God'?--of course,\" smiled David, in open relief. \"God wraps up\nthe buds in their little brown blankets, and covers the roots with--\"\n\n\"I am not talking about brown blankets nor roots,\" interrupted the man\nseverely. \"This is God's day, and as such should be kept holy.\"\n\n\"'Holy'?\"\n\n\"Yes. You should not fiddle nor laugh nor sing.\"\n\n\"But those are good things, and beautiful things,\" defended David, his\neyes wide and puzzled.\n\n\"In their place, perhaps,\" conceded the man, stiffly, \"but not on God's\nday.\"\n\n\"You mean--He wouldn't like them?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"--and David's face cleared. \"That's all right, then. Your God\nisn't the same one, sir, for mine loves all beautiful things every day\nin the year.\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence. For the first time in his life Simeon\nHolly found himself without words.\n\n\"We won't talk of this any more, David,\" he said at last; \"but we'll\nput it another way--I don't wish you to play your fiddle on Sunday.\nNow, put it up till to-morrow.\" And he turned and went down the hall.\n\nBreakfast was a very quiet meal that morning. Meals were never things\nof hilarious joy at the Holly farmhouse, as David had already found\nout; but he had not seen one before quite so somber as this. It was\nfollowed immediately by a half-hour of Scripture-reading and prayer,\nwith Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson sitting very stiff and solemn in their\nchairs, while Mr. Holly read. David tried to sit very stiff and solemn\nin his chair, also; but the roses at the window were nodding their\nheads and beckoning; and the birds in the bushes beyond were sending to\nhim coaxing little chirps of \"Come out, come out!\" And how could one\nexpect to sit stiff and solemn in the face of all that, particularly\nwhen one's fingers were tingling to take up the interrupted song of the\nmorning and tell the whole world how beautiful it was to be wanted!\n\nYet David sat very still,--or as still as he could sit,--and only the\ntapping of his foot, and the roving of his wistful eyes told that his\nmind was not with Farmer Holly and the Children of Israel in their\nwanderings in the wilderness.\n\nAfter the devotions came an hour of subdued haste and confusion while\nthe family prepared for church. David had never been to church. He\nasked Perry Larson what it was like; but Perry only shrugged his\nshoulders and said, to nobody, apparently:--\n\n\"Sugar! Won't ye hear that, now?\"--which to David was certainly no\nanswer at all.\n\nThat one must be spick and span to go to church, David soon found\nout--never before had he been so scrubbed and brushed and combed. There\nwas, too, brought out for him to wear a little clean white blouse and a\nred tie, over which Mrs. Holly cried a little as she had over the\nnightshirt that first evening.\n\nThe church was in the village only a quarter of a mile away; and in due\ntime David, open-eyed and interested, was following Mr. and Mrs. Holly\ndown its long center aisle. The Hollys were early as usual, and service\nhad not begun. Even the organist had not taken his seat beneath the\ngreat pipes of blue and gold that towered to the ceiling.\n\nIt was the pride of the town--that organ. It had been given by a great\nman (out in the world) whose birthplace the town was. More than that, a\nyearly donation from this same great man paid for the skilled organist\nwho came every Sunday from the city to play it. To-day, as the organist\ntook his seat, he noticed a new face in the Holly pew, and he almost\ngave a friendly smile as he met the wondering gaze of the small boy\nthere; then he lost himself, as usual, in the music before him.\n\nDown in the Holly pew the small boy held his breath. A score of violins\nwere singing in his ears; and a score of other instruments that he\ncould not name, crashed over his head, and brought him to his feet in\necstasy. Before a detaining hand could stop him, he was out in the\naisle, his eyes on the blue-and-gold pipes from which seemed to come\nthose wondrous sounds. Then his gaze fell on the man and on the banks\nof keys; and with soft steps he crept along the aisle and up the stairs\nto the organ-loft.\n\nFor long minutes he stood motionless, listening; then the music died\ninto silence and the minister rose for the invocation. It was a boy's\nvoice, and not a man's, however, that broke the pause.\n\n\"Oh, sir, please,\" it said, \"would you--could you teach ME to do that?\"\n\nThe organist choked over a cough, and the soprano reached out and drew\nDavid to her side, whispering something in his ear. The minister, after\na dazed silence, bowed his head; while down in the Holly pew an angry\nman and a sorely mortified woman vowed that, before David came to\nchurch again, he should have learned some things.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE PUZZLING \"DOS\" AND \"DON'TS\"\n\nWith the coming of Monday arrived a new life for David--a curious life\nfull of \"don'ts\" and \"dos.\" David wondered sometimes why all the\npleasant things were \"don'ts\" and all the unpleasant ones \"dos.\" Corn\nto be hoed, weeds to be pulled, woodboxes to be filled; with all these\nit was \"do this, do this, do this.\" But when it came to lying under the\napple trees, exploring the brook that ran by the field, or even\nwatching the bugs and worms that one found in the earth--all these were\n\"don'ts.\"\n\nAs to Farmer Holly--Farmer Holly himself awoke to some new experiences\nthat Monday morning. One of them was the difficulty in successfully\ncombating the cheerfully expressed opinion that weeds were so pretty\ngrowing that it was a pity to pull them up and let them all wither and\ndie. Another was the equally great difficulty of keeping a small boy at\nuseful labor of any sort in the face of the attractions displayed by a\npassing cloud, a blossoming shrub, or a bird singing on a tree-branch.\n\nIn spite of all this, however, David so evidently did his best to carry\nout the \"dos\" and avoid the \"don'ts,\" that at four o'clock that first\nMonday he won from the stern but would-be-just Farmer Holly his freedom\nfor the rest of the day; and very gayly he set off for a walk. He went\nwithout his violin, as there was the smell of rain in the air; but his\nface and his step and the very swing of his arms were singing (to\nDavid) the joyous song of the morning before. Even yet, in spite of the\nvicissitudes of the day's work, the whole world, to David's homesick,\nlonely little heart, was still caroling that blessed \"You're wanted,\nyou're wanted, you're wanted!\"\n\nAnd then he saw the crow.\n\nDavid knew crows. In his home on the mountain he had had several of\nthem for friends. He had learned to know and answer their calls. He had\nlearned to admire their wisdom and to respect their moods and tempers.\nHe loved to watch them. Especially he loved to see the great birds cut\nthrough the air with a wide sweep of wings, so alive, so gloriously\nfree!\n\nBut this crow--\n\nThis crow was not cutting through the air with a wide sweep of wing. It\nwas in the middle of a cornfield, and it was rising and falling and\nflopping about in a most extraordinary fashion. Very soon David,\nrunning toward it, saw why. By a long leather strip it was fastened\nsecurely to a stake in the ground.\n\n\"Oh, oh, oh!\" exclaimed David, in sympathetic consternation. \"Here, you\njust wait a minute. I'll fix it.\"\n\nWith confident celerity David whipped out his jackknife to cut the\nthong; but he found then that to \"fix it\" and to say he would \"fix it\"\nwere two different matters.\n\nThe crow did not seem to recognize in David a friend. He saw in him,\napparently, but another of the stone-throwing, gun-shooting, torturing\nhumans who were responsible for his present hateful captivity. With\nbeak and claw and wing, therefore, he fought this new evil that had\ncome presumedly to torment; and not until David had hit upon the\nexpedient of taking off his blouse, and throwing it over the angry\nbird, could the boy get near enough to accomplish his purpose. Even\nthen David had to leave upon the slender leg a twist of leather.\n\nA moment later, with a whir of wings and a frightened squawk that\nquickly turned into a surprised caw of triumphant rejoicing, the crow\nsoared into the air and made straight for a distant tree-top. David,\nafter a minute's glad surveying of his work, donned his blouse again\nand resumed his walk.\n\nIt was almost six o'clock when David got back to the Holly farmhouse.\nIn the barn doorway sat Perry Larson.\n\n\"Well, sonny,\" the man greeted him cheerily, \"did ye get yer weedin'\ndone?\"\n\n\"Y--yes,\" hesitated David. \"I got it done; but I didn't like it.\"\n\n\"'T is kinder hot work.\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't mind that part,\" returned David. \"What I didn't like was\npulling up all those pretty little plants and letting them die.\"\n\n\"Weeds--'pretty little plants'!\" ejaculated the man. \"Well, I'll be\njiggered!\"\n\n\"But they WERE pretty,\" defended David, reading aright the scorn in\nPerry Larson's voice. \"The very prettiest and biggest there were,\nalways. Mr. Holly showed me, you know,--and I had to pull them up.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll be jiggered!\" muttered Perry Larson again.\n\n\"But I've been to walk since. I feel better now.\"\n\n\"Oh, ye do!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. I had a splendid walk. I went 'way up in the woods on the\nhill there. I was singing all the time--inside, you know. I was so glad\nMrs. Holly--wanted me. You know what it is, when you sing inside.\"\n\nPerry Larson scratched his head.\n\n\"Well, no, sonny, I can't really say I do,\" he retorted. \"I ain't much\non singin'.\"\n\n\"Oh, but I don't mean aloud. I mean inside. When you're happy, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"When I'm--oh!\" The man stopped and stared, his mouth falling open.\nSuddenly his face changed, and he grinned appreciatively. \"Well, if you\nain't the beat 'em, boy! 'T is kinder like singin'--the way ye feel\ninside, when yer 'specially happy, ain't it? But I never thought of it\nbefore.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. Why, that's where I get my songs--inside of me, you\nknow--that I play on my violin. And I made a crow sing, too. Only HE\nsang outside.\"\n\n\"SING--A CROW!\" scoffed the man. \"Shucks! It'll take more 'n you ter\nmake me think a crow can sing, my lad.\"\n\n\"But they do, when they're happy,\" maintained the boy. \"Anyhow, it\ndoesn't sound the same as it does when they're cross, or plagued over\nsomething. You ought to have heard this one to-day. He sang. He was so\nglad to get away. I let him loose, you see.\"\n\n\"You mean, you CAUGHT a crow up there in them woods?\" The man's voice\nwas skeptical.\n\n\"Oh, no, I didn't catch it. But somebody had, and tied him up. And he\nwas so unhappy!\"\n\n\"A crow tied up in the woods!\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't find THAT in the woods. It was before I went up the hill\nat all.\"\n\n\"A crow tied up--Look a-here, boy, what are you talkin' about? Where\nwas that crow?\" Perry Larson's whole self had become suddenly alert.\n\n\"In the field 'Way over there. And somebody--\"\n\n\"The cornfield! Jingo! Boy, you don't mean you touched THAT crow?\"\n\n\"Well, he wouldn't let me TOUCH him,\" half-apologized David. \"He was so\nafraid, you see. Why, I had to put my blouse over his head before he'd\nlet me cut him loose at all.\"\n\n\"Cut him loose!\" Perry Larson sprang to his feet. \"You did n't--you\nDIDn't let that crow go!\"\n\nDavid shrank back.\n\n\"Why, yes; he WANTED to go. He--\" But the man before him had fallen\nback despairingly to his old position.\n\n\"Well, sir, you've done it now. What the boss'll say, I don't know; but\nI know what I'd like ter say to ye. I was a whole week, off an' on,\ngettin' hold of that crow, an' I wouldn't have got him at all if I\nhadn't hid half the night an' all the mornin' in that clump o' bushes,\nwatchin' a chance ter wing him, jest enough an' not too much. An' even\nthen the job wa'n't done. Let me tell yer, 't wa'n't no small thing ter\nget him hitched. I'm wearin' the marks of the rascal's beak yet. An'\nnow you've gone an' let him go--just like that,\" he finished, snapping\nhis fingers angrily.\n\nIn David's face there was no contrition. There was only incredulous\nhorror.\n\n\"You mean, YOU tied him there, on purpose?\"\n\n\"Sure I did!\"\n\n\"But he didn't like it. Couldn't you see he didn't like it?\" cried\nDavid.\n\n\"Like it! What if he didn't? I didn't like ter have my corn pulled up,\neither. See here, sonny, you no need ter look at me in that tone o'\nvoice. I didn't hurt the varmint none ter speak of--ye see he could\nfly, didn't ye?--an' he wa'n't starvin'. I saw to it that he had enough\nter eat an' a dish o' water handy. An' if he didn't flop an' pull an'\ntry ter get away he needn't 'a' hurt hisself never. I ain't ter blame\nfor what pullin' he done.\"\n\n\"But wouldn't you pull if you had two big wings that could carry you to\nthe top of that big tree there, and away up, up in the sky, where you\ncould talk to the stars?--wouldn't you pull if somebody a hundred times\nbigger'n you came along and tied your leg to that post there?\"\n\nThe man, Perry, flushed an angry red.\n\n\"See here, sonny, I wa'n't askin' you ter do no preachin'. What I did\nain't no more'n any man 'round here does--if he's smart enough ter\ncatch one. Rigged-up broomsticks ain't in it with a live bird when it\ncomes ter drivin' away them pesky, thievin' crows. There ain't a farmer\n'round here that hain't been green with envy, ever since I caught the\ncritter. An' now ter have you come along an' with one flip o'yer knife\nspile it all, I--Well, it jest makes me mad, clean through! That's all.\"\n\n\"You mean, you tied him there to frighten away the other crows?\"\n\n\"Sure! There ain't nothin' like it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so sorry!\"\n\n\"Well, you'd better be. But that won't bring back my crow!\"\n\nDavid's face brightened.\n\n\"No, that's so, isn't it? I'm glad of that. I was thinking of the\ncrows, you see. I'm so sorry for them! Only think how we'd hate to be\ntied like that--\" But Perry Larson, with a stare and an indignant\nsnort, had got to his feet, and was rapidly walking toward the house.\n\nVery plainly, that evening, David was in disgrace, and it took all of\nMrs. Holly's tact and patience, and some private pleading, to keep a\ngeneral explosion from wrecking all chances of his staying longer at\nthe farmhouse. Even as it was, David was sorrowfully aware that he was\nproving to be a great disappointment so soon, and his violin playing\nthat evening carried a moaning plaintiveness that would have been very\nsignificant to one who knew David well.\n\nVery faithfully, the next day, the boy tried to carry out all the\n\"dos,\" and though he did not always succeed, yet his efforts were so\nobvious, that even the indignant owner of the liberated crow was\nsomewhat mollified; and again Simeon Holly released David from work at\nfour o'clock.\n\nAlas, for David's peace of mind, however; for on his walk to-day,\nthough he found no captive crow to demand his sympathy, he found\nsomething else quite as heartrending, and as incomprehensible.\n\nIt was on the edge of the woods that he came upon two boys, each\ncarrying a rifle, a dead squirrel, and a dead rabbit. The threatened\nrain of the day before had not materialized, and David had his violin.\nHe had been playing softly when he came upon the boys where the path\nentered the woods.\n\n\"Oh!\" At sight of the boys and their burden David gave an involuntary\ncry, and stopped playing.\n\nThe boys, scarcely less surprised at sight of David and his violin,\npaused and stared frankly.\n\n\"It's the tramp kid with his fiddle,\" whispered one to the other\nhuskily.\n\nDavid, his grieved eyes on the motionless little bodies in the boys'\nhands, shuddered.\n\n\"Are they--dead, too?\"\n\nThe bigger boy nodded self-importantly.\n\n\"Sure. We just shot 'em--the squirrels. Ben here trapped the rabbits.\"\nHe paused, manifestly waiting for the proper awed admiration to come\ninto David's face.\n\nBut in David's startled eyes there was no awed admiration, there was\nonly disbelieving horror.\n\n\"You mean, you SENT them to the far country?\"\n\n\"We--what?\"\n\n\"Sent them. Made them go yourselves--to the far country?\"\n\nThe younger boy still stared. The older one grinned disagreeably.\n\n\"Sure,\" he answered with laconic indifference. \"We sent 'em to the far\ncountry, all right.\"\n\n\"But--how did you know they WANTED to go?\"\n\n\"Wanted--Eh?\" exploded the big boy. Then he grinned again, still more\ndisagreeably. \"Well, you see, my dear, we didn't ask 'em,\" he gibed.\n\nReal distress came into David's face.\n\n\"Then you don't know at all. And maybe they DIDn't want to go. And if\nthey didn't, how COULD they go singing, as father said? Father wasn't\nsent. He WENT. And he went singing. He said he did. But these--How\nwould YOU like to have somebody come along and send YOU to the far\ncountry, without even knowing if you wanted to go?\"\n\nThere was no answer. The boys, with a growing fear in their eyes, as at\nsight of something inexplicable and uncanny, were sidling away; and in\na moment they were hurrying down the hill, not, however, without a\nbackward glance or two, of something very like terror.\n\nDavid, left alone, went on his way with troubled eyes and a thoughtful\nfrown.\n\nDavid often wore, during those first few days at the Holly farmhouse, a\nthoughtful face and a troubled frown. There were so many, many things\nthat were different from his mountain home. Over and over, as those\nfirst long days passed, he read his letter until he knew it by\nheart--and he had need to. Was he not already surrounded by things and\npeople that were strange to him?\n\nAnd they were so very strange--these people! There were the boys and\nmen who rose at dawn--yet never paused to watch the sun flood the world\nwith light; who stayed in the fields all day--yet never raised their\neyes to the big fleecy clouds overhead; who knew birds only as thieves\nafter fruit and grain, and squirrels and rabbits only as creatures to\nbe trapped or shot. The women--they were even more incomprehensible.\nThey spent the long hours behind screened doors and windows, washing\nthe same dishes and sweeping the same floors day after day. They, too,\nnever raised their eyes to the blue sky outside, nor even to the\ncrimson roses that peeped in at the window. They seemed rather to be\nlooking always for dirt, yet not pleased when they found it--especially\nif it had been tracked in on the heel of a small boy's shoe!\n\nMore extraordinary than all this to David, however, was the fact that\nthese people regarded HIM, not themselves, as being strange. As if it\nwere not the most natural thing in the world to live with one's father\nin one's home on the mountain-top, and spend one's days trailing\nthrough the forest paths, or lying with a book beside some babbling\nlittle stream! As if it were not equally natural to take one's violin\nwith one at times, and learn to catch upon the quivering strings the\nwhisper of the winds through the trees! Even in winter, when the clouds\nthemselves came down from the sky and covered the earth with their soft\nwhiteness,--even then the forest was beautiful; and the song of the\nbrook under its icy coat carried a charm and mystery that were quite\nwanting in the chattering freedom of summer. Surely there was nothing\nstrange in all this, and yet these people seemed to think there was!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nJOE\n\nDay by day, however, as time passed, David diligently tried to perform\nthe \"dos\" and avoid the \"don'ts\"; and day by day he came to realize how\nimportant weeds and woodboxes were, if he were to conform to what was\nevidently Farmer Holly's idea of \"playing in, tune\" in this strange new\nOrchestra of Life in which he found himself.\n\nBut, try as he would, there was yet an unreality about it all, a\npersistent feeling of uselessness and waste, that would not be set\naside. So that, after all, the only part of this strange new life of\nhis that seemed real to him was the time that came after four o'clock\neach day, when he was released from work.\n\nAnd how full he filled those hours! There was so much to see, so much\nto do. For sunny days there were field and stream and pasture land and\nthe whole wide town to explore. For rainy days, if he did not care to\ngo to walk, there was his room with the books in the chimney cupboard.\nSome of them David had read before, but many of them he had not. One or\ntwo were old friends; but not so \"Dare Devil Dick,\" and \"The Pirates of\nPigeon Cove\" (which he found hidden in an obscure corner behind a loose\nboard). Side by side stood \"The Lady of the Lake,\" \"Treasure Island,\"\nand \"David Copperfield\"; and coverless and dogeared lay \"Robinson\nCrusoe,\" \"The Arabian Nights,\" and \"Grimm's Fairy Tales.\" There were\nmore, many more, and David devoured them all with eager eyes. The good\nin them he absorbed as he absorbed the sunshine; the evil he cast aside\nunconsciously--it rolled off, indeed, like the proverbial water from\nthe duck's back.\n\nDavid hardly knew sometimes which he liked the better, his imaginative\nadventures between the covers of his books or his real adventures in\nhis daily strolls. True, it was not his mountain home--this place in\nwhich he found himself; neither was there anywhere his Silver Lake with\nits far, far-reaching sky above. More deplorable yet, nowhere was there\nthe dear father he loved so well. But the sun still set in rose and\ngold, and the sky, though small, still carried the snowy sails of its\ncloud-boats; while as to his father--his father had told him not to\ngrieve, and David was trying very hard to obey.\n\nWith his violin for company David started out each day, unless he\nelected to stay indoors with his books. Sometimes it was toward the\nvillage that he turned his steps; sometimes it was toward the hills\nback of the town. Whichever way it was, there was always sure to be\nsomething waiting at the end for him and his violin to discover, if it\nwas nothing more than a big white rose in bloom, or a squirrel sitting\nby the roadside.\n\nVery soon, however, David discovered that there was something to be\nfound in his wanderings besides squirrels and roses; and that\nwas--people. In spite of the strangeness of these people, they were\nwonderfully interesting, David thought. And after that he turned his\nsteps more and more frequently toward the village when four o'clock\nreleased him from the day's work.\n\nAt first David did not talk much to these people. He shrank sensitively\nfrom their bold stares and unpleasantly audible comments. He watched\nthem with round eyes of wonder and interest, however,--when he did not\nthink they were watching him. And in time he came to know not a little\nabout them and about the strange ways in which they passed their time.\n\nThere was the greenhouse man. It would be pleasant to spend one's day\ngrowing plants and flowers--but not under that hot, stifling glass\nroof, decided David. Besides, he would not want always to pick and send\naway the very prettiest ones to the city every morning, as the\ngreenhouse man did.\n\nThere was the doctor who rode all day long behind the gray mare, making\nsick folks well. David liked him, and mentally vowed that he himself\nwould be a doctor sometime. Still, there was the stage-driver--David\nwas not sure but he would prefer to follow this man's profession for a\nlife-work; for in his, one could still have the freedom of long days in\nthe open, and yet not be saddened by the sight of the sick before they\nhad been made well--which was where the stage-driver had the better of\nthe doctor, in David's opinion. There were the blacksmith and the\nstorekeepers, too, but to these David gave little thought or attention.\n\nThough he might not know what he did want to do, he knew very well what\nhe did not. All of which merely goes to prove that David was still on\nthe lookout for that great work which his father had said was waiting\nfor him out in the world.\n\nMeanwhile David played his violin. If he found a crimson rambler in\nbloom in a door-yard, he put it into a little melody of pure\ndelight--that a woman in the house behind the rambler heard the music\nand was cheered at her task, David did not know. If he found a kitten\nat play in the sunshine, he put it into a riotous abandonment of\ntumbling turns and trills--that a fretful baby heard and stopped its\nwailing, David also did not know. And once, just because the sky was\nblue and the air was sweet, and it was so good to be alive, David\nlifted his bow and put it all into a rapturous paean of ringing\nexultation--that a sick man in a darkened chamber above the street\nlifted his head, drew in his breath, and took suddenly a new lease of\nlife, David still again did not know. All of which merely goes to prove\nthat David had perhaps found his work and was doing it--although yet\nstill again David did not know.\n\nIt was in the cemetery one afternoon that David came upon the Lady in\nBlack. She was on her knees putting flowers on a little mound before\nher. She looked up as David approached. For a moment she gazed\nwistfully at him; then as if impelled by a hidden force, she spoke.\n\n\"Little boy, who are you?\"\n\n\"I'm David.\"\n\n\"David! David who? Do you live here? I've seen you here before.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I've been here quite a lot of times.\" Purposely the boy\nevaded the questions. David was getting tired of questions--especially\nthese questions.\n\n\"And have you--lost one dear to you, little boy?\"\n\n\"Lost some one?\"\n\n\"I mean--is your father or mother--here?\"\n\n \"Here? Oh, no, they aren't here. My mother is an angel-mother,\nand my father has gone to the far country. He is waiting for me there,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"But, that's the same--that is--\" She stopped helplessly, bewildered\neyes on David's serene face. Then suddenly a great light came to her\nown. \"Oh, little boy, I wish I could understand that--just that,\" she\nbreathed. \"It would make it so much easier--if I could just remember\nthat they aren't here--that they're WAITING--over there!\"\n\nBut David apparently did not hear. He had turned and was playing softly\nas he walked away. Silently the Lady in Black knelt, listening, looking\nafter him. When she rose some time later and left the cemetery, the\nlight on her face was still there, deeper, more glorified.\n\nToward boys and girls--especially boys--of his own age, David\nfrequently turned wistful eyes. David wanted a friend, a friend who\nwould know and understand; a friend who would see things as he saw\nthem, who would understand what he was saying when he played. It seemed\nto David that in some boy of his own age he ought to find such a\nfriend. He had seen many boys--but he had not yet found the friend.\nDavid had begun to think, indeed, that of all these strange beings in\nthis new life of his, boys were the strangest.\n\nThey stared and nudged each other unpleasantly when they came upon him\nplaying. They jeered when he tried to tell them what he had been\nplaying. They had never heard of the great Orchestra of Life, and they\nfell into most disconcerting fits of laughter, or else backed away as\nif afraid, when he told them that they themselves were instruments in\nit, and that if they did not keep themselves in tune, there was sure to\nbe a discord somewhere.\n\nThen there were their games and frolics. Such as were played with\nballs, bats, and bags of beans, David thought he would like very much.\nBut the boys only scoffed when he asked them to teach him how to play.\nThey laughed when a dog chased a cat, and they thought it very, very\nfunny when Tony, the old black man, tripped on the string they drew\nacross his path. They liked to throw stones and shoot guns, and the\nmore creeping, crawling, or flying creatures that they could send to\nthe far country, the happier they were, apparently. Nor did they like\nit at all when he asked them if they were sure all these creeping,\ncrawling, flying creatures wanted to leave this beautiful world and to\nbe made dead. They sneered and called him a sissy. David did not know\nwhat a sissy was; but from the way they said it, he judged it must be\neven worse to be a sissy than to be a thief.\n\nAnd then he discovered Joe.\n\nDavid had found himself in a very strange, very unlovely neighborhood\nthat afternoon. The street was full of papers and tin cans, the houses\nwere unspeakably forlorn with sagging blinds and lack of paint. Untidy\nwomen and blear-eyed men leaned over the dilapidated fences, or lolled\non mud-tracked doorsteps. David, his shrinking eyes turning from one\nside to the other, passed slowly through the street, his violin under\nhis arm. Nowhere could David find here the tiniest spot of beauty to\n\"play.\" He had reached quite the most forlorn little shanty on the\nstreet when the promise in his father's letter occurred to him. With a\nsuddenly illumined face, he raised his violin to position and plunged\ninto a veritable whirl of trills and runs and tripping melodies.\n\n\"If I didn't just entirely forget that I didn't NEED to SEE anything\nbeautiful to play,\" laughed David softly to himself. \"Why, it's already\nright here in my violin!\"\n\nDavid had passed the tumble-down shanty, and was hesitating where two\nstreets crossed, when he felt a light touch on his arm. He turned to\nconfront a small girl in a patched and faded calico dress, obviously\noutgrown. Her eyes were wide and frightened. In the middle of her\noutstretched dirty little palm was a copper cent.\n\n\"If you please, Joe sent this--to you,\" she faltered.\n\n\"To me? What for?\" David stopped playing and lowered his violin.\n\nThe little girl backed away perceptibly, though she still held out the\ncoin.\n\n\"He wanted you to stay and play some more. He said to tell you he'd 'a'\nsent more money if he could. But he didn't have it. He just had this\ncent.\"\n\nDavid's eyes flew wide open.\n\n\"You mean he WANTS me to play? He likes it?\" he asked joyfully.\n\n\"Yes. He said he knew 't wa'n't much--the cent. But he thought maybe\nyou'd play a LITTLE for it.\"\n\n\"Play? Of course I'll play\" cried David. \"Oh, no, I don't want the\nmoney,\" he added, waving the again-proffered coin aside. \"I don't need\nmoney where I'm living now. Where is he--the one that wanted me to\nplay?\" he finished eagerly.\n\n\"In there by the window. It's Joe. He's my brother.\" The little girl,\nin spite of her evident satisfaction at the accomplishment of her\npurpose, yet kept quite aloof from the boy. Nor did the fact that he\nrefused the money appear to bring her anything but uneasy surprise.\n\nIn the window David saw a boy apparently about his own age, a boy with\nsandy hair, pale cheeks, and wide-open, curiously intent blue eyes.\n\n\"Is he coming? Did you get him? Will he play?\" called the boy at the\nwindow eagerly.\n\n\"Yes, I'm right here. I'm the one. Can't you see the violin? Shall I\nplay here or come in?\" answered David, not one whit less eagerly.\n\nThe small girl opened her lips as if to explain something; but the boy\nin the window did not wait.\n\n\"Oh, come in. WILL you come in?\" he cried unbelievingly. \"And will you\njust let me touch it--the fiddle? Come! You WILL come? See, there isn't\nanybody home, only just Betty and me.\"\n\n\"Of course I will!\" David fairly stumbled up the broken steps in his\nimpatience to reach the wide-open door. \"Did you like it--what I\nplayed? And did you know what I was playing? Did you understand? Could\nyou see the cloud-boats up in the sky, and my Silver Lake down in the\nvalley? And could you hear the birds, and the winds in the trees, and\nthe little brooks? Could you? Oh, did you understand? I've so wanted to\nfind some one that could! But I wouldn't think that YOU--HERE--\" With a\ngesture, and an expression on his face that were unmistakable, David\ncame to a helpless pause.\n\n\"There, Joe, what'd I tell you,\" cried the little girl, in a husky\nwhisper, darting to her brother's side. \"Oh, why did you make me get\nhim here? Everybody says he's crazy as a loon, and--\"\n\nBut the boy reached out a quickly silencing hand. His face was\ncuriously alight, as if from an inward glow. His eyes, still widely\nintent, were staring straight ahead.\n\n\"Stop, Betty, wait,\" he hushed her. \"Maybe--I think I DO understand.\nBoy, you mean--INSIDE of you, you see those things, and then you try to\nmake your fiddle tell what you are seeing. Is that it?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" cried David. \"Oh, you DO understand. And I never thought\nyou could. I never thought that anybody could that did n't have\nanything to look at but him--but these things.\"\n\n\"'Anything but these to look at'!\" echoed the boy, with a sudden\nanguish in his voice. \"Anything but these! I guess if I could see\nANYTHING, I wouldn't mind WHAT I see! An' you wouldn't, neither, if you\nwas--blind, like me.\"\n\n\"Blind!\" David fell back. Face and voice were full of horror. \"You mean\nyou can't see--anything, with your eyes?\"\n\n\"Nothin'.\"\n\n\"Oh! I never saw any one blind before. There was one in a book--but\nfather took it away. Since then, in books down here, I've found\nothers--but--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes. Well, never mind that,\" cut in the blind boy, growing\nrestive under the pity in the other's voice. \"Play. Won't you?\"\n\n\"But how are you EVER going to know what a beautiful world it is?\"\nshuddered David. \"How can you know? And how can you ever play in tune?\nYou're one of the instruments. Father said everybody was. And he said\neverybody was playing SOMETHING all the time; and if you didn't play in\ntune--\"\n\n\"Joe, Joe, please,\" begged the little girl \"Won't you let him go? I'm\nafraid. I told you--\"\n\n\"Shucks, Betty! He won't hurt ye,\" laughed Joe, a little irritably.\nThen to David he turned again with some sharpness.\n\n\"Play, won't ye? You SAID you'd play!\"\n\n\"Yes, oh, yes, I'll play,\" faltered David, bringing his violin hastily\nto position, and testing the strings with fingers that shook a little.\n\n\"There!\" breathed Joe, settling back in his chair with a contented\nsigh. \"Now, play it again--what you did before.\"\n\nBut David did not play what he did before--at first. There were no airy\ncloud-boats, no far-reaching sky, no birds, or murmuring forest brooks\nin his music this time. There were only the poverty-stricken room, the\ndirty street, the boy alone at the window, with his sightless eyes--the\nboy who never, never would know what a beautiful world he lived in.\n\nThen suddenly to David came a new thought. This boy, Joe, had said\nbefore that he understood. He had seemed to know that he was being told\nof the sunny skies and the forest winds, the singing birds and the\nbabbling brooks. Perhaps again now he would understand.\n\nWhat if, for those sightless eyes, one could create a world?\n\nPossibly never before had David played as he played then. It was as if\nupon those four quivering strings, he was laying the purple and gold of\na thousand sunsets, the rose and amber of a thousand sunrises, the\ngreen of a boundless earth, the blue of a sky that reached to heaven\nitself--to make Joe understand.\n\n\"Gee!\" breathed Joe, when the music came to an end with a crashing\nchord. \"Say, wa'n't that just great? Won't you let me, please, just\ntouch that fiddle?\" And David, looking into the blind boy's exalted\nface, knew that Joe had indeed--understood.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE LADY OF THE ROSES\n\nIt was a new world, indeed, that David created for Joe after that--a\nworld that had to do with entrancing music where once was silence;\ndelightful companionship where once was loneliness; and toothsome\ncookies and doughnuts where once was hunger.\n\nThe Widow Glaspell, Joe's mother, worked out by the day, scrubbing and\nwashing; and Joe, perforce, was left to the somewhat erratic and\ndecidedly unskillful ministrations of Betty. Betty was no worse, and no\nbetter, than any other untaught, irresponsible twelve-year-old girl,\nand it was not to be expected, perhaps, that she would care to spend\nall the bright sunny hours shut up with her sorely afflicted and\nsomewhat fretful brother. True, at noon she never failed to appear and\nprepare something that passed for a dinner for herself and Joe. But the\nGlaspell larder was frequently almost as empty as were the hungry\nstomachs that looked to it for refreshment; and it would have taken a\nfar more skillful cook than was the fly-away Betty to evolve anything\nfrom it that was either palatable or satisfying.\n\nWith the coming of David into Joe's life all this was changed. First,\nthere were the music and the companionship. Joe's father had \"played in\nthe band\" in his youth, and (according to the Widow Glaspell) had been\na \"powerful hand for music.\" It was from him, presumably, that Joe had\ninherited his passion for melody and harmony; and it was no wonder that\nDavid recognized so soon in the blind boy the spirit that made them\nkin. At the first stroke of David's bow, indeed, the dingy walls about\nthem would crumble into nothingness, and together the two boys were off\nin a fairy world of loveliness and joy.\n\nNor was listening always Joe's part. From \"just touching\" the\nviolin--his first longing plea--he came to drawing a timid bow across\nthe strings. In an incredibly short time, then, he was picking out bits\nof melody; and by the end of a fortnight David had brought his father's\nviolin for Joe to practice on.\n\n\"I can't GIVE it to you--not for keeps,\" David had explained, a bit\ntremulously, \"because it was daddy's, you know; and when I see it, it\nseems almost as if I was seeing him. But you may take it. Then you can\nhave it here to play on whenever you like.\"\n\nAfter that, in Joe's own hands lay the power to transport himself into\nanother world, for with the violin for company he knew no loneliness.\n\nNor was the violin all that David brought to the house. There were the\ndoughnuts and the cookies. Very early in his visits David had\ndiscovered, much to his surprise, that Joe and Betty were often hungry.\n\n\"But why don't you go down to the store and buy something?\" he had\nqueried at once.\n\nUpon being told that there was no money to buy with, David's first\nimpulse had been to bring several of the gold-pieces the next time he\ncame; but upon second thoughts David decided that he did not dare. He\nwas not wishing to be called a thief a second time. It would be better,\nhe concluded, to bring some food from the house instead.\n\nIn his mountain home everything the house afforded in the way of food\nhad always been freely given to the few strangers that found their way\nto the cabin door. So now David had no hesitation in going to Mrs.\nHolly's pantry for supplies, upon the occasion of his next visit to Joe\nGlaspell's.\n\nMrs. Holly, coming into the kitchen, found him merging from the pantry\nwith both hands full of cookies and doughnuts.\n\n\"Why, David, what in the world does this mean?\" she demanded.\n\n\"They're for Joe and Betty,\" smiled David happily.\n\n\"For Joe and--But those doughnuts and cookies don't belong to you.\nThey're mine!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know they are. I told them you had plenty,\" nodded David.\n\n\"Plenty! What if I have?\" remonstrated Mrs. Holly, in growing\nindignation. \"That doesn't mean that you can take--\" Something in\nDavid's face stopped the words half-spoken.\n\n\"You don't mean that I CAN'T take them to Joe and Betty, do you? Why,\nMrs. Holly, they're hungry! Joe and Betty are. They don't have half\nenough to eat. Betty said so. And we've got more than we want. There's\nfood left on the table every day. Why, if YOU were hungry, wouldn't you\nwant somebody to bring--\"\n\nBut Mrs. Holly stopped him with a despairing gesture.\n\n\"There, there, never mind. Run along. Of course you can take them.\nI'm--I'm GLAD to have you,\" she finished, in a desperate attempt to\ndrive from David's face that look of shocked incredulity with which he\nwas still regarding her.\n\nNever again did Mrs. Holly attempt to thwart David's generosity to the\nGlaspells; but she did try to regulate it. She saw to it that\nthereafter, upon his visits to the house, he took only certain things\nand a certain amount, and invariably things of her own choosing.\n\nBut not always toward the Glaspell shanty did David turn his steps.\nVery frequently it was in quite another direction. He had been at the\nHolly farmhouse three weeks when he found his Lady of the Roses.\n\nHe had passed quite through the village that day, and had come to a\nroad that was new to him. It was a beautiful road, smooth, white, and\nfirm. Two huge granite posts topped with flaming nasturtiums marked the\npoint where it turned off from the main highway. Beyond these, as David\nsoon found, it ran between wide-spreading lawns and flowering shrubs,\nleading up the gentle slope of a hill. Where it led to, David did not\nknow, but he proceeded unhesitatingly to try to find out. For some time\nhe climbed the slope in silence, his violin, mute, under his arm; but\nthe white road still lay in tantalizing mystery before him when a\nby-path offered the greater temptation, and lured him to explore its\ncool shadowy depths instead.\n\nHad David but known it, he was at Sunny-crest, Hinsdale's one \"show\nplace,\" the country home of its one really rich resident, Miss Barbara\nHolbrook. Had he also but known it, Miss Holbrook was not celebrated\nfor her graciousness to any visitors, certainly not to those who\nventured to approach her otherwise than by a conventional ring at her\nfront doorbell. But David did not know all this; and he therefore very\nhappily followed the shady path until he came to the Wonder at the end\nof it.\n\nThe Wonder, in Hinsdale parlance, was only Miss Holbrook's garden, but\nin David's eyes it was fairyland come true. For one whole minute he\ncould only stand like a very ordinary little boy and stare. At the end\nof the minute he became himself once more; and being himself, he\nexpressed his delight at once in the only way he knew how to do--by\nraising his violin and beginning to play.\n\nHe had meant to tell of the limpid pool and of the arch of the bridge\nit reflected; of the terraced lawns and marble steps, and of the\ngleaming white of the sculptured nymphs and fauns; of the splashes of\nglorious crimson, yellow, blush-pink, and snowy white against the\ngreen, where the roses rioted in luxurious bloom. He had meant, also,\nto tell of the Queen Rose of them all--the beauteous lady with hair\nlike the gold of sunrise, and a gown like the shimmer of the moon on\nwater--of all this he had meant to tell; but he had scarcely begun to\ntell it at all when the Beauteous Lady of the Roses sprang to her feet\nand became so very much like an angry young woman who is seriously\ndispleased that David could only lower his violin in dismay.\n\n\"Why, boy, what does this mean?\" she demanded.\n\nDavid sighed a little impatiently as he came forward into the sunlight.\n\n\"But I was just telling you,\" he remonstrated, \"and you would not let\nme finish.\"\n\n\"Telling me!\"\n\n\"Yes, with my violin. COULDn't you understand?\" appealed the boy\nwistfully. \"You looked as if you could!\"\n\n\"Looked as if I could!\"\n\n\"Yes. Joe understood, you see, and I was surprised when HE did. But I\nwas just sure you could--with all this to look at.\"\n\nThe lady frowned. Half-unconsciously she glanced about her as if\ncontemplating flight. Then she turned back to the boy.\n\n\"But how came you here? Who are you?\" she cried.\n\n\"I'm David. I walked here through the little path back there. I didn't\nknow where it went to, but I'm so glad now I found out!\"\n\n\"Oh, are you!\" murmured the lady, with slightly uplifted brows.\n\nShe was about to tell him very coldly that now that he had found his\nway there he might occupy himself in finding it home again, when the\nboy interposed rapturously, his eyes sweeping the scene before him:--\n\n\"Yes. I didn't suppose, anywhere, down here, there was a place one half\nso beautiful!\"\n\nAn odd feeling of uncanniness sent a swift exclamation to the lady's\nlips.\n\n\"'Down here'! What do you mean by that? You speak as if you came\nfrom--above,\" she almost laughed.\n\n\"I did,\" returned David simply. \"But even up there I never found\nanything quite like this,\"--with a sweep of his hands,--\"nor like you,\nO Lady of the Roses,\" he finished with an admiration that was as open\nas it was ardent.\n\nThis time the lady laughed outright. She even blushed a little.\n\n\"Very prettily put, Sir Flatterer\" she retorted; \"but when you are\nolder, young man, you won't make your compliments quite so broad. I am\nno Lady of the Roses. I am Miss Holbrook; and--and I am not in the\nhabit of receiving gentlemen callers who are uninvited\nand--unannounced,\" she concluded, a little sharply.\n\nPointless the shaft fell at David's feet. He had turned again to the\nbeauties about him, and at that moment he spied the sundial--something\nhe had never seen before.\n\n\"What is it?\" he cried eagerly, hurrying forward. \"It isn't exactly\npretty, and yet it looks as if 't were meant for--something.\"\n\n\"It is. It is a sundial. It marks the time by the sun.\"\n\nEven as she spoke, Miss Holbrook wondered why she answered the question\nat all; why she did not send this small piece of nonchalant\nimpertinence about his business, as he so richly deserved. The next\ninstant she found herself staring at the boy in amazement. With\nunmistakable ease, and with the trained accent of the scholar, he was\nreading aloud the Latin inscription on the dial: \"'Horas non numero\nnisi serenas,' 'I count--no--hours but--unclouded ones,'\" he translated\nthen, slowly, though with confidence. \"That's pretty; but what does it\nmean--about 'counting'?\"\n\nMiss Holbrook rose to her feet.\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, boy, who, and what are you?\" she demanded. \"Can YOU\nread Latin?\"\n\n\"Why, of course! Can't you?\" With a disdainful gesture Miss Holbrook\nswept this aside.\n\n\"Boy, who are you?\" she demanded again imperatively.\n\n\"I'm David. I told you.\"\n\n\"But David who? Where do you live?\"\n\nThe boy's face clouded.\n\n\"I'm David--just David. I live at Farmer Holly's now; but I did live on\nthe mountain with--father, you know.\"\n\nA great light of understanding broke over Miss Holbrook's face. She\ndropped back into her seat.\n\n\"Oh, I remember,\" she murmured. \"You're the little--er--boy whom he\ntook. I have heard the story. So THAT is who you are,\" she added, the\nold look of aversion coming back to her eyes. She had almost said \"the\nlittle tramp boy\"--but she had stopped in time.\n\n\"Yes. And now what do they mean, please,--those words,--'I count no\nhours but unclouded ones'?\"\n\nMiss Holbrook stirred in her seat and frowned.\n\n\"Why, it means what it says, of course, boy. A sundial counts its hours\nby the shadow the sun throws, and when there is no sun there is no\nshadow; hence it's only the sunny hours that are counted by the dial,\"\nshe explained a little fretfully.\n\nDavid's face radiated delight.\n\n\"Oh, but I like that!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"You like it!\"\n\n\"Yes. I should like to be one myself, you know.\"\n\n\"Well, really! And how, pray?\" In spite of herself a faint gleam of\ninterest came into Miss Holbrook's eyes.\n\nDavid laughed and dropped himself easily to the ground at her feet. He\nwas holding his violin on his knees now.\n\n\"Why, it would be such fun,\" he chuckled, \"to just forget all about the\nhours when the sun didn't shine, and remember only the nice, pleasant\nones. Now for me, there wouldn't be any hours, really, until after four\no'clock, except little specks of minutes that I'd get in between when I\nDID see something interesting.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook stared frankly.\n\n\"What an extraordinary boy you are, to be sure,\" she murmured. \"And\nwhat, may I ask, is it that you do every day until four o'clock, that\nyou wish to forget?\"\n\nDavid sighed.\n\n\"Well, there are lots of things. I hoed potatoes and corn, first, but\nthey're too big now, mostly; and I pulled up weeds, too, till they were\ngone. I've been picking up stones, lately, and clearing up the yard.\nThen, of course, there's always the woodbox to fill, and the eggs to\nhunt, besides the chickens to feed,--though I don't mind THEM so much;\nbut I do the other things, 'specially the weeds. They were so much\nprettier than the things I had to let grow, 'most always.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook laughed.\n\n\"Well, they were; and really\" persisted the boy, in answer to the\nmerriment in her eyes; \"now wouldn't it be nice to be like the sundial,\nand forget everything the sun didn't shine on? Would n't you like it?\nIsn't there anything YOU want to forget?\"\n\nMiss Holbrook sobered instantly. The change in her face was so very\nmarked, indeed, that involuntarily David looked about for something\nthat might have cast upon it so great a shadow. For a long minute she\ndid not speak; then very slowly, very bitterly, she said aloud--yet as\nif to herself:--\n\n\"Yes. If I had my way I'd forget them every one--these hours; every\nsingle one!\"\n\n\"Oh, Lady of the Roses!\" expostulated David in a voice quivering with\nshocked dismay. \"You don't mean--you can't mean that you don't have\nANY--sun!\"\n\n\"I mean just that,\" bowed Miss Holbrook wearily, her eyes on the somber\nshadows of the pool; \"just that!\"\n\nDavid sat stunned, confounded. Across the marble steps and the terraces\nthe shadows lengthened, and David watched them as the sun dipped behind\nthe tree-tops. They seemed to make more vivid the chill and the gloom\nof the lady's words--more real the day that had no sun. After a time\nthe boy picked up his violin and began to play, softly, and at first\nwith evident hesitation. Even when his touch became more confident,\nthere was still in the music a questioning appeal that seemed to find\nno answer--an appeal that even the player himself could not have\nexplained.\n\nFor long minutes the young woman and the boy sat thus in the twilight.\nThen suddenly the woman got to her feet.\n\n\"Come, come, boy, what can I be thinking of?\" she cried sharply. \"I\nmust go in and you must go home. Good-night.\" And she swept across the\ngrass to the path that led toward the house.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nJACK AND JILL\n\nDavid was tempted to go for a second visit to his Lady of the Roses,\nbut something he could not define held him back. The lady was in his\nmind almost constantly, however; and very vivid to him was the picture\nof the garden, though always it was as he had seen it last with the\nhush and shadow of twilight, and with the lady's face gloomily turned\ntoward the sunless pool. David could not forget that for her there were\nno hours to count; she had said it herself. He could not understand how\nthis could be so; and the thought filled him with vague unrest and pain.\n\nPerhaps it was this restlessness that drove David to explore even more\npersistently the village itself, sending him into new streets in search\nof something strange and interesting. One day the sound of shouts and\nlaughter drew him to an open lot back of the church where some boys\nwere at play.\n\nDavid still knew very little of boys. In his mountain home he had never\nhad them for playmates, and he had not seen much of them when he went\nwith his father to the mountain village for supplies. There had been,\nit is true, the boy who frequently brought milk and eggs to the cabin;\nbut he had been very quiet and shy, appearing always afraid and anxious\nto get away, as if he had been told not to stay. More recently, since\nDavid had been at the Holly farmhouse, his experience with boys had\nbeen even less satisfying. The boys--with the exception of blind\nJoe--had very clearly let it be understood that they had little use for\na youth who could find nothing better to do than to tramp through the\nwoods and the streets with a fiddle under his arm.\n\nTo-day, however, there came a change. Perhaps they were more used to\nhim; or perhaps they had decided suddenly that it might be good fun to\nsatisfy their curiosity, anyway, regardless of consequences. Whatever\nit was, the lads hailed his appearance with wild shouts of glee.\n\n\"Golly, boys, look! Here's the fiddlin' kid,\" yelled one; and the\nothers joined in the \"Hurrah!\" he gave.\n\nDavid smiled delightedly; once more he had found some one who wanted\nhim--and it was so nice to be wanted! Truth to tell, David had felt not\na little hurt at the persistent avoidance of all those boys and girls\nof his own age.\n\n\"How--how do you do?\" he said diffidently, but still with that beaming\nsmile.\n\nAgain the boys shouted gleefully as they hurried forward. Several had\nshort sticks in their hands. One had an old tomato can with a string\ntied to it. The tallest boy had something that he was trying to hold\nbeneath his coat.\n\n\"'H--how do you do?'\" they mimicked. \"How do you do, fiddlin' kid?\"\n\n\"I'm David; my name is David.\" The reminder was graciously given, with\na smile.\n\n\"David! David! His name is David,\" chanted the boys, as if they were a\ncomic-opera chorus.\n\nDavid laughed outright.\n\n\"Oh, sing it again, sing it again!\" he crowed. \"That sounded fine!\"\n\nThe boys stared, then sniffed disdainfully, and cast derisive glances\ninto each other's eyes--it appeared that this little sissy tramp boy\ndid not even know enough to discover when he was being laughed at!\n\n\"David! David! His name is David,\" they jeered into his face again.\n\"Come on, tune her up! We want ter dance.\"\n\n\"Play? Of course I'll play,\" cried David joyously, raising his violin\nand testing a string for its tone.\n\n\"Here, hold on,\" yelled the tallest boy. \"The Queen o' the Ballet ain't\nready\". And he cautiously pulled from beneath his coat a struggling\nkitten with a perforated bag tied over its head.\n\n\"Sure! We want her in the middle,\" grinned the boy with the tin can.\n\"Hold on till I get her train tied to her,\" he finished, trying to\ncapture the swishing, fluffy tail of the frightened little cat.\n\nDavid had begun to play, but he stopped his music with a discordant\nstroke of the bow.\n\n\"What are you doing? What is the matter with that cat?\" he demanded.\n\n\"'Matter'!\" called a derisive voice. \"Sure, nothin' 's the matter with\nher. She's the Queen o' the Ballet--she is!\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" cried David. At that moment the string bit hard\ninto the captured tail, and the kitten cried out with the pain. \"Look\nout! You're hurting her,\" cautioned David sharply.\n\nOnly a laugh and a jeering word answered. Then the kitten, with the bag\non its head and the tin can tied to its tail, was let warily to the\nground, the tall boy still holding its back with both hands.\n\n\"Ready, now! Come on, play,\" he ordered; \"then we'll set her dancing.\"\n\nDavid's eyes flashed.\n\n\"I will not play--for that.\"\n\nThe boys stopped laughing suddenly.\n\n\"Eh? What?\" They could scarcely have been more surprised if the kitten\nitself had said the words.\n\n\"I say I won't play--I can't play--unless you let that cat go.\"\n\n\"Hoity-toity! Won't ye hear that now?\" laughed a mocking voice. \"And\nwhat if we say we won't let her go, eh?\"\n\n\"Then I'll make you,\" vowed David, aflame with a newborn something that\nseemed to have sprung full-grown into being.\n\n\"Yow!\" hooted the tallest boy, removing both hands from the captive\nkitten.\n\nThe kitten, released, began to back frantically. The can, dangling at\nits heels, rattled and banged and thumped, until the frightened little\ncreature, crazed with terror, became nothing but a whirling mass of\nmisery. The boys, formed now into a crowing circle of delight, kept the\nkitten within bounds, and flouted David mercilessly.\n\n\"Ah, ha!--stop us, will ye? Why don't ye stop us?\" they gibed.\n\nFor a moment David stood without movement, his eyes staring. The next\ninstant he turned and ran. The jeers became a chorus of triumphant\nshouts then--but not for long. David had only hurried to the woodpile\nto lay down his violin. He came back then, on the run--and before the\ntallest boy could catch his breath he was felled by a stinging blow on\nthe jaw.\n\nOver by the church a small girl, red-haired and red-eyed, clambered\nhastily over the fence behind which for long minutes she had been\ncrying and wringing her hands.\n\n\"He'll be killed, he'll be killed,\" she moaned.  \"And it's my fault,\n'cause it's my kitty--it's my kitty,\" she sobbed, straining her eyes to\ncatch a glimpse of the kitten's protector in the squirming mass of legs\nand arms.\n\nThe kitten, unheeded now by the boys, was pursuing its backward whirl\nto destruction some distance away, and very soon the little girl\ndiscovered her. With a bound and a choking cry she reached the kitten,\nremoved the bag and unbound the cruel string. Then, sitting on the\nground, a safe distance away, she soothed the palpitating little bunch\nof gray fur, and watched with fearful eyes the fight.\n\nAnd what a fight it was! There was no question, of course, as to its\nfinal outcome, with six against one; but meanwhile the one was giving\nthe six the surprise of their lives in the shape of well-dealt blows\nand skillful twists and turns that caused their own strength and weight\nto react upon themselves in a most astonishing fashion. The one\nunmistakably was getting the worst of it, however, when the little\ngirl, after a hurried dash to the street, brought back with her to the\nrescue a tall, smooth-shaven young man whom she had hailed from afar as\n\"Jack.\"\n\nJack put a stop to things at once. With vigorous jerks and pulls he\nunsnarled the writhing mass, boy by boy, each one of whom, upon\ncatching sight of his face, slunk hurriedly away, as if glad to escape\nso lightly. There was left finally upon the ground only David alone.\nBut when David did at last appear, the little girl burst into tears\nanew.\n\n\"Oh, Jack, he's killed--I know he's killed,\" she wailed. \"And he was so\nnice and--and pretty. And now--look at him! Ain't he a sight?\"\n\nDavid was not killed, but he was--a sight. His blouse was torn, his tie\nwas gone, and his face and hands were covered with dirt and blood.\nAbove one eye was an ugly-looking lump, and below the other was a red\nbruise. Somewhat dazedly he responded to the man's helpful hand, pulled\nhimself upright, and looked about him. He did not see the little girl\nbehind him.\n\n\"Where's the cat?\" he asked anxiously.\n\nThe unexpected happened then. With a sobbing cry the little girl flung\nherself upon him, cat and all.\n\n\"Here, right here,\" she choked. \"And it was you who saved her--my\nJuliette! And I'll love you, love you, love you always for it!\"\n\n\"There, there, Jill,\" interposed the man a little hurriedly. \"Suppose\nwe first show our gratitude by seeing if we can't do something to make\nour young warrior here more comfortable.\" And he began to brush off\nwith his handkerchief some of the accumulated dirt.\n\n\"Why can't we take him home, Jack, and clean him up 'fore other folks\nsee him?\" suggested the girl.\n\nThe boy turned quickly.\n\n\"Did you call him 'Jack'?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And he called you, Jill'?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"The real 'Jack and Jill' that 'went up the hill'?\" The man and the\ngirl laughed; but the girl shook her head as she answered,--\n\n\"Not really--though we do go up a hill, all right, every day. But those\naren't even our own names. We just call each other that for fun. Don't\nYOU ever call things--for fun?\"\n\nDavid's face lighted up in spite of the dirt, the lump, and the bruise.\n\n\"Oh, do you do that?\" he breathed.  \"Say, I just know I'd like to play\nto you! You'd understand!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, and he plays, too,\" explained the little girl, turning to the\nman rapturously. \"On a fiddle, you know, like you.\"\n\nShe had not finished her sentence before David was away, hurrying a\nlittle unsteadily across the lot for his violin. When he came back the\nman was looking at him with an anxious frown.\n\n\"Suppose you come home with us, boy,\" he said. \"It isn't far--through\nthe hill pasture, 'cross lots,--and we'll look you over a bit. That\nlump over your eye needs attention.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" beamed David. \"I'd like to go, and--I'm glad you want me!\"\nHe spoke to the man, but he looked at the little red-headed girl, who\nstill held the gray kitten in her arms.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER\n\n\"Jack and Jill,\" it appeared, were a brother and sister who lived in a\ntiny house on a hill directly across the creek from Sunnycrest. Beyond\nthis David learned little until after bumps and bruises and dirt had\nbeen carefully attended to. He had then, too, some questions to answer\nconcerning himself.\n\n\"And now, if you please,\" began the man smilingly, as he surveyed the\nboy with an eye that could see no further service to be rendered, \"do\nyou mind telling me who you are, and how you came to be the center of\nattraction for the blows and cuffs of six boys?\"\n\n\"I'm David, and I wanted the cat,\" returned the boy simply.\n\n\"Well, that's direct and to the point, to say the least,\" laughed the\nman. \"Evidently, however, you're in the habit of being that. But,\nDavid, there were six of them,--those boys,--and some of them were\nlarger than you.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"And they were so bad and cruel,\" chimed in the little girl.\n\nThe man hesitated, then questioned slowly.\n\n\"And may I ask you where you--er--learned to--fight like that?\"\n\n\"I used to box with father. He said I must first be well and strong. He\ntaught me jiujitsu, too, a little; but I couldn't make it work very\nwell--with so many.\"\n\n\"I should say not,\" adjudged the man grimly. \"But you gave them a\nsurprise or two, I'll warrant,\" he added, his eyes on the cause of the\ntrouble, now curled in a little gray bunch of content on the window\nsill. \"But I don't know yet who you are. Who is your father? Where does\nhe live?\"\n\nDavid shook his head. As was always the case when his father was\nmentioned, his face grew wistful and his eyes dreamy.\n\n\"He doesn't live here anywhere,\" murmured the boy. \"In the far country\nhe is waiting for me to come to him and tell him of the beautiful world\nI have found, you know.\"\n\n\"Eh? What?\" stammered the man, not knowing whether to believe his eyes,\nor his ears. This boy who fought like a demon and talked like a saint,\nand who, though battered and bruised, prattled of the \"beautiful world\"\nhe had found, was most disconcerting.\n\n\"Why, Jack, don't you know?\" whispered the little girl agitatedly.\n\"He's the boy at Mr. Holly's that they took.\" Then, still more softly:\n\"He's the little tramp boy. His father died in the barn.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the man, his face clearing, and his eyes showing a quick\nsympathy. \"You're the boy at the Holly farmhouse, are you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"And he plays the fiddle everywhere,\" volunteered the little girl, with\nardent admiration. \"If you hadn't been shut up sick just now, you'd\nhave heard him yourself. He plays everywhere--everywhere he goes.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" murmured Jack politely, shuddering a little at what he\nfancied would come from a violin played by a boy like the one before\nhim. (Jack could play the violin himself a little--enough to know it\nsome, and love it more.) \"Hm-m; well, and what else do you do?\"\n\n\"Nothing, except to go for walks and read.\"\n\n\"Nothing!--a big boy like you--and on Simeon Holly's farm?\" Voice and\nmanner showed that Jack was not unacquainted with Simeon Holly and his\nmethods and opinions.\n\nDavid laughed gleefully.\n\n\"Oh, of course, REALLY I do lots of things, only I don't count those\nany more. 'Horas non numero nisi serenas,' you knew,\" he quoted\npleasantly, smiling into the man's astonished eyes.\n\n\"Jack, what was that--what he said?\" whispered the little girl. \"It\nsounded foreign. IS he foreign?\"\n\n\"You've got me, Jill,\" retorted the man, with a laughing grimace.\n\"Heaven only knows what he is--I don't. What he SAID was Latin; I do\nhappen to know that. Still\"--he turned to the boy ironically--\"of\ncourse you know the translation of that,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, yes. 'I count no hours but unclouded ones'--and I liked that. 'T\nwas on a sundial, you know; and I'M going to be a sundial, and not\ncount, the hours I don't like--while I'm pulling up weeds, and hoeing\npotatoes, and picking up stones, and all that. Don't you see?\"\n\nFor a moment the man stared dumbly. Then he threw back his head and\nlaughed.\n\n\"Well, by George!\" he muttered. \"By George!\" And he laughed again.\nThen: \"And did your father teach you that, too?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, no,--well, he taught me Latin, and so of course I could read it\nwhen I found it. But those 'special words I got off the sundial where\nmy Lady of the Roses lives.\"\n\n\"Your--Lady of the Roses! And who is she?\"\n\n\"Why, don't you know? You live right in sight of her house,\" cried\nDavid, pointing to the towers of Sunnycrest that showed above the\ntrees. \"It's over there she lives. I know those towers now, and I look\nfor them wherever I go. I love them. It makes me see all over again the\nroses--and her.\"\n\n\"You mean--Miss Holbrook?\"\n\nThe voice was so different from the genial tones that he had heard\nbefore that David looked up in surprise.\n\n\"Yes; she said that was her name,\" he answered, wondering at the\nindefinable change that had come to the man's face.\n\nThere was a moment's pause, then the man rose to his feet.\n\n\"How's your head? Does it ache?\" he asked briskly.\n\n\"Not much--some. I--I think I'll be going,\" replied David, a little\nawkwardly, reaching for his violin, and unconsciously showing by his\nmanner the sudden chill in the atmosphere.\n\nThe little girl spoke then. She overwhelmed him again with thanks, and\npointed to the contented kitten on the window sill. True, she did not\ntell him this time that she would love, love, love him always; but she\nbeamed upon him gratefully and she urged him to come soon again, and\noften.\n\nDavid bowed himself off, with many a backward wave of the hand, and\nmany a promise to come again. Not until he had quite reached the bottom\nof the hill did he remember that the man, \"Jack,\" had said almost\nnothing at the last. As David recollected him, indeed, he had last been\nseen standing beside one of the veranda posts, with gloomy eyes fixed\non the towers of Sunnycrest that showed red-gold above the tree-tops in\nthe last rays of the setting sun.\n\nIt was a bad half-hour that David spent at the Holly farmhouse in\nexplanation of his torn blouse and bruised face. Farmer Holly did not\napprove of fights, and he said so, very sternly indeed. Even Mrs.\nHolly, who was usually so kind to him, let David understand that he was\nin deep disgrace, though  she was very tender to his wounds.\n\nDavid did venture to ask her, however, before he went upstairs to bed:--\n\n\"Mrs. Holly, who are those people--Jack and Jill--that were so good to\nme this afternoon?\"\n\n\"They are John Gurnsey and his sister, Julia; but the whole town knows\nthem by the names they long ago gave themselves, 'Jack' and 'Jill.'\"\n\n\"And do they live all alone in the little house?\"\n\n\"Yes, except for the Widow Glaspell, who comes in several times a week,\nI believe, to cook and wash and sweep. They aren't very happy, I'm\nafraid, David, and I'm glad you could rescue the little girl's kitten\nfor her--but you mustn't fight. No good can come of fighting!\"\n\n\"I got the cat--by fighting.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I know; but--\" She did not finish her sentence, and David\nwas only waiting for a pause to ask another question.\n\n\"Why aren't they happy, Mrs. Holly?\"\n\n\"Tut, tut, David, it's a long story, and you wouldn't understand it if\nI told it. It's only that they're all alone in the world, and Jack\nGurnsey isn't well. He must be thirty years old now. He had bright\nhopes not so long ago studying law, or something of the sort, in the\ncity. Then his father died, and his mother, and he lost his health.\nSomething ails his lungs, and the doctors sent him here to be out of\ndoors. He even sleeps out of doors, they say. Anyway, he's here, and\nhe's making a home for his sister; but, of course, with his hopes and\nambitions--But there, David, you don't understand, of course!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I do,\" breathed David, his eyes pensively turned toward a\nshadowy corner. \"He found his work out in the world, and then he had to\nstop and couldn't do it. Poor Mr. Jack!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nA SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK\n\nLife at the Holly farmhouse was not what it had been. The coming of\nDavid had introduced new elements that promised complications. Not\nbecause he was another mouth to feed--Simeon Holly was not worrying\nabout that part any longer. Crops showed good promise, and all ready in\nthe bank even now was the necessary money to cover the dreaded note,\ndue the last of August. The complicating elements in regard to David\nwere of quite another nature.\n\nTo Simeon Holly the boy was a riddle to be sternly solved. To Ellen\nHolly he was an everpresent reminder of the little boy of long ago, and\nas such was to be loved and trained into a semblance of what that boy\nmight have become. To Perry Larson, David was the \"derndest\ncheckerboard of sense an' nonsense goin'\"--a game over which to chuckle.\n\nAt the Holly farmhouse they could not understand a boy who would leave\na supper for a sunset, or who preferred a book to a toy pistol--as\nPerry Larson found out was the case on the Fourth of July; who picked\nflowers, like a girl, for the table, yet who unhesitatingly struck the\nfirst blow in a fight with six antagonists: who would not go fishing\nbecause the fishes would not like it, nor hunting for any sort of wild\nthing that had life; who hung entranced for an hour over the \"millions\nof lovely striped bugs\" in a field of early potatoes, and who promptly\nand stubbornly refused to sprinkle those same \"lovely bugs\" with Paris\ngreen when discovered at his worship. All this was most perplexing, to\nsay the least.\n\nYet David worked, and worked well, and in most cases he obeyed orders\nwillingly. He learned much, too, that was interesting and profitable;\nnor was he the only one that made strange discoveries during those July\ndays. The Hollys themselves learned much. They learned that the rose of\nsunset and the gold of sunrise were worth looking at; and that the\nmassing of the thunderheads in the west meant more than just a shower.\nThey learned, too, that the green of the hilltop and of the\nfar-reaching meadow was more than grass, and that the purple haze along\nthe horizon was more than the mountains that lay between them and the\nnext State. They were beginning to see the world with David's eyes.\n\nThere were, too, the long twilights and evenings when David, on the\nwings of his violin, would speed away to his mountain home, leaving\nbehind him a man and a woman who seemed to themselves to be listening\nto the voice of a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked lad who once played at\ntheir knees and nestled in their arms when the day was done. And here,\ntoo, the Hollys were learning; though the thing thus learned was hidden\ndeep in their hearts.\n\nIt was not long after David's first visit that the boy went again to\n\"The House that Jack Built,\" as the Gurnseys called their tiny home.\n(Though in reality it had been Jack's father who had built the house.\nJack and Jill, however, did not always deal with realities.) It was not\na pleasant afternoon. There was a light mist in the air, and David was\nwithout his violin.\n\n\"I came to--to inquire for the cat--Juliette,\" he began, a little\nbashfully. \"I thought I'd rather do that than read to-day,\" he\nexplained to Jill in the doorway.\n\n\"Good! I'm so glad! I hoped you'd come,\" the little girl welcomed him.\n\"Come in and--and see Juliette,\" she added hastily, remembering at the\nlast moment that her brother had not looked with entire favor on her\navowed admiration for this strange little boy.\n\nJuliette, roused from her nap, was at first inclined to resent her\nvisitor's presence. In five minutes, however, she was purring in his\nlap.\n\nThe conquest of the kitten once accomplished, David looked about him a\nlittle restlessly. He began to wonder why he had come. He wished he had\ngone to see Joe Glaspell instead. He wished that Jill would not sit and\nstare at him like that. He wished that she would say\nsomething--anything. But Jill, apparently struck dumb with\nembarrassment, was nervously twisting the corner of her apron into a\nlittle knot. David tried to recollect what he had talked about a few\ndays before, and he wondered why he had so enjoyed himself then. He\nwished that something would happen--anything!--and then from an inner\nroom came the sound of a violin.\n\nDavid raised his head.\n\n\"It's Jack,\" stammered the little girl--who also had been wishing\nsomething would happen. \"He plays, same as you do, on the violin.\"\n\n\"Does he?\" beamed David. \"But--\" He paused, listening, a quick frown on\nhis face.\n\nOver and over the violin was playing a single phrase--and the\nvariations in the phrase showed the indecision of the fingers and of\nthe mind that controlled them. Again and again with irritating\nsameness, yet with a still more irritating difference, came the\nsuccession of notes. And then David sprang to his feet, placing\nJuliette somewhat unceremoniously on the floor, much to that petted\nyoung autocrat's disgust.\n\n\"Here, where is he? Let me show him,\" cried the boy, and at the note of\ncommand in his voice, Jill involuntarily rose and opened the door to\nJack's den.\n\n\"Oh, please, Mr. Jack,\" burst out David, hurrying into the room. \"Don't\nyou see? You don't go at that thing right. If you'll just let me show\nyou a minute, we'll have it fixed in no time!\"\n\nThe man with the violin stared, and lowered his bow. A slow red came to\nhis face. The phrase was peculiarly a difficult one, and beyond him, as\nhe knew; but that did not make the present intrusion into his privacy\nany the more welcome.\n\n\"Oh, will we, indeed!\" he retorted, a little sharply.  \"Don't trouble\nyourself, I beg of you, boy.\"\n\n\"But it isn't a mite of trouble, truly,\" urged David, with an ardor\nthat ignored the sarcasm in the other's words. \"I WANT to do it.\"\n\nDespite his annoyance, the man gave a short laugh.\n\n\"Well, David, I believe you. And I'll warrant you'd tackle this Brahms\nconcerto as nonchalantly as you did those six hoodlums with the cat the\nother day--and expect to win out, too!\"\n\n\"But, truly, this is easy, when you know how,\" laughed the boy. \"See!\"\n\nTo his surprise, the man found himself relinquishing the violin and bow\ninto the slim, eager hands that reached for them. The next moment he\nfell back in amazement. Clear, distinct, yet connected like a string of\nrounded pearls fell the troublesome notes from David's bow. \"You see,\"\nsmiled the boy again, and played the phrase a second time, more slowly,\nand with deliberate emphasis at the difficult part. Then, as if in\nanswer to some irresistible summons within him, he dashed into the next\nphrase and, with marvelous technique, played quite through the rippling\ncadenza that completed the movement.\n\n\"Well, by George!\" breathed the man dazedly, as he took the offered\nviolin. The next moment he had demanded vehemently: \"For Heaven's sake,\nwho ARE you, boy?\"\n\nDavid's face wrinkled in grieved surprise.\n\n\"Why, I'm David. Don't you remember? I was here just the other day!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; but who taught you to play like that?\"\n\n\"Father.\"\n\n\"'Father'!\" The man echoed the word with a gesture of comic despair.\n\"First Latin, then jiujitsu, and now the violin! Boy, who was your\nfather?\"\n\nDavid lifted his head and frowned a little. He had been questioned so\noften, and so unsympathetically, about his father that he was beginning\nto resent it.\n\n\"He was daddy--just daddy; and I loved him dearly.\"\n\n\"But what was his name?\"\n\n\"I don't know. We didn't seem to have a name like--like yours down\nhere. Anyway, if we did, I didn't know what it was.\"\n\n\"But, David,\"--the man was speaking very gently now. He had motioned\nthe boy to a low seat by his side. The little girl was standing near,\nher eyes alight with wondering interest. \"He must have had a name, you\nknow, just the same. Didn't you ever hear any one call him anything?\nThink, now.\"\n\n\"No.\" David said the single word, and turned his eyes away. It had\noccurred to him, since he had come to live in the valley, that perhaps\nhis father did not want to have his name known. He remembered that once\nthe milk-and-eggs boy had asked what to call him; and his father had\nlaughed and answered: \"I don't see but you'll have to call me 'The Old\nMan of the Mountain,' as they do down in the village.\" That was the\nonly time David could recollect hearing his father say anything about\nhis name. At the time David had not thought much about it. But since\nthen, down here where they appeared to think a name was so important,\nhe had wondered if possibly his father had not preferred to keep his to\nhimself. If such were the case, he was glad now that he did not know\nthis name, so that he might not have to tell all these inquisitive\npeople who asked so many questions about it. He was glad, too, that\nthose men had not been able to read his father's name at the end of his\nother note that first morning--if his father really did not wish his\nname to be known.\n\n\"But, David, think. Where you lived, wasn't there ever anybody who\ncalled him by name?\"\n\nDavid shook his head.\n\n\"I told you. We were all alone, father and I, in the little house far\nup on the mountain.\"\n\n\"And--your mother?\" Again David shook his head.\n\n\"She is an angel-mother, and angel-mothers don't live in houses, you\nknow.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause; then gently the man asked:--\n\n\"And you always lived there?\"\n\n\"Six years, father said.\"\n\n\"And before that?\"\n\n\"I don't remember.\" There was a touch of injured reserve in the boy's\nvoice which the man was quick to perceive. He took the hint at once.\n\n\"He must have been a wonderful man--your father!\" he exclaimed.\n\nThe boy turned, his eyes luminous with feeling.\n\n\"He was--he was perfect! But they--down here--don't seem to know--or\ncare,\" he choked.\n\n\"Oh, but that's because they don't understand,\" soothed the man. \"Now,\ntell me--you must have practiced a lot to play like that.\"\n\n\"I did--but I liked it.\"\n\n\"And what else did you do? and how did you happen to come--down here?\"\n\nOnce again David told his story, more fully, perhaps, this time than\never before, because of the sympathetic ears that were listening.\n\n\"But now\" he finished wistfully, \"it's all, so different, and I'm down\nhere alone. Daddy went, you know, to the far country; and he can't come\nback from there.\"\n\n\"Who told you--that?\"\n\n\"Daddy himself. He wrote it to me.\"\n\n\"Wrote it to you!\" cried the man, sitting suddenly erect.\n\n\"Yes. It was in his pocket, you see. They--found it.\" David's voice was\nvery low, and not quite steady.\n\n\"David, may I see--that letter?\"\n\nThe boy hesitated; then slowly he drew it from his pocket.\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Jack. I'll let YOU see it.\"\n\nReverently, tenderly, but very eagerly the man took the note and read\nit through, hoping somewhere to find a name that would help solve the\nmystery. With a sigh he handed it back. His eyes were wet.\n\n\"Thank you, David. That is a beautiful letter,\" he said softly. \"And I\nbelieve you'll do it some day, too. You'll go to him with your violin\nat your chin and the bow drawn across the strings to tell him of the\nbeautiful world you have found.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said David simply. Then, with a suddenly radiant smile:\n\"And NOW I can't help finding it a beautiful world, you know, 'cause I\ndon't count the hours I don't like.\"\n\n\"You don't what?--oh, I remember,\" returned Mr. Jack, a quick change\ncoming to his face.\n\n\"Yes, the sundial, you know, where my Lady of the Roses lives.\"\n\n\"Jack, what is a sundial?\" broke in Jill eagerly.\n\nJack turned, as if in relief.\n\n\"Hullo, girlie, you there?--and so still all this time? Ask David.\nHe'll tell you what a sundial is. Suppose, anyhow, that you two go out\non the piazza now. I've got--er-some work to do. And the sun itself is\nout; see?--through the trees there. It came out just to say\n'good-night,' I'm sure. Run along, quick!\" And he playfully drove them\nfrom the room.\n\nAlone, he turned and sat down at his desk. His work was before him, but\nhe did not do it. His eyes were out of the window on the golden tops of\nthe towers of Sunnycrest. Motionless, he watched them until they turned\ngray-white in the twilight. Then he picked up his pencil and began to\nwrite feverishly. He went to the window, however, as David stepped off\nthe veranda, and called merrily:--\n\n\"Remember, boy, that when there's another note that baffles me, I'm\ngoing to send for you.\"\n\n\"He's coming anyhow. I asked him,\" announced Jill.\n\n And David laughed back a happy \"Of course I am!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE TOWER WINDOW\n\nIt is not to be expected that when one's thoughts lead so persistently\nto a certain place, one's feet will not follow, if they can; and\nDavid's could--so he went to seek his Lady of the Roses.\n\nAt four o'clock one afternoon, with his violin under his arm, he\ntraveled the firm white road until he came to the shadowed path that\nled to the garden. He had decided that he would go exactly as he went\nbefore. He expected, in consequence, to find his Lady exactly as he had\nfound her before, sitting reading under the roses. Great was his\nsurprise and disappointment, therefore, to find the garden with no one\nin it.\n\nHe had told himself that it was the sundial, the roses, the shimmering\npool, the garden itself that he wanted to see; but he knew now that it\nwas the lady--his Lady of the Roses. He did not even care to play,\nthough all around him was the beauty that had at first so charmed his\neye. Very slowly he walked across the sunlit, empty space, and entered\nthe path that led to the house. In his mind was no definite plan; yet\nhe walked on and on, until he came to the wide lawns surrounding the\nhouse itself. He stopped then, entranced.\n\nStone upon stone the majestic pile raised itself until it was etched,\nclean-cut, against the deep blue of the sky. The towers--his\ntowers--brought to David's lips a cry of delight. They were even more\nenchanting here than when seen from afar over the tree-tops, and David\ngazed up at them in awed wonder. From somewhere came the sound of\nmusic--a curious sort of music that David had never heard before. He\nlistened intently, trying to place it; then slowly he crossed the lawn,\nascended the imposing stone steps, and softly opened one of the narrow\nscreen doors before the wide-open French window.\n\nOnce within the room David drew a long breath of ecstasy. Beneath his\nfeet he felt the velvet softness of the green moss of the woods. Above\nhis head he saw a sky-like canopy of blue carrying fleecy clouds on\nwhich floated little pink-and-white children with wings, just as David\nhimself had so often wished that he could float. On all sides silken\nhangings, like the green of swaying vines, half-hid other hangings of\nfeathery, snowflake lace. Everywhere mirrored walls caught the light\nand reflected the potted ferns and palms so that David looked down\nendless vistas of loveliness that seemed for all the world like the\nlong sunflecked aisles beneath the tall pines of his mountain home.\n\nThe music that David had heard at first had long since stopped; but\nDavid had not noticed that. He stood now in the center of the room,\nawed, and trembling, but enraptured. Then from somewhere came a\nvoice--a voice so cold that it sounded as if it had swept across a\nfield of ice.\n\n\"Well, boy, when you have quite finished your inspection, perhaps you\nwill tell me to what I am indebted for THIS visit,\" it said.\n\nDavid turned abruptly.\n\n\"O Lady of the Roses, why didn't you tell me it was like this--in\nhere?\" he breathed.\n\n\"Well, really,\" murmured the lady in the doorway, stiffly, \"it had not\noccurred to me that that was hardly--necessary.\"\n\n\"But it was!--don't you see? This is new, all new. I never saw anything\nlike it before; and I do so love new things. It gives me something new\nto play; don't you understand?\"\n\n\"New--to play?\"\n\n\"Yes--on my violin,\" explained David, a little breathlessly, softly\ntesting his violin. \"There's always something new in this, you know,\"\nhe hurried on, as he tightened one of the strings, \"when there's\nanything new outside. Now, listen! You see I don't know myself just how\nit's going to sound, and I'm always so anxious to find out.\" And with a\njoyously rapt face he began to play.\n\n\"But, see here, boy,--you mustn't! You--\" The words died on her lips;\nand, to her unbounded amazement, Miss Barbara Holbrook, who had\nintended peremptorily to send this persistent little tramp boy about\nhis business, found herself listening to a melody so compelling in its\nsonorous beauty that she was left almost speechless at its close. It\nwas the boy who spoke.\n\n\"There, I told you my violin would know what to say!\"\n\n\"'What to say'!--well, that's more than I do\" laughed Miss Holbrook, a\nlittle hysterically. \"Boy, come here and tell me who you are.\" And she\nled the way to a low divan that stood near a harp at the far end of the\nroom.\n\nIt was the same story, told as David had told it to Jack and Jill a few\ndays before, only this time David's eyes were roving admiringly all\nabout the room, resting oftenest on the harp so near him.\n\n\"Did that make the music that I heard?\" he asked eagerly, as soon as\nMiss Holbrook's questions gave him opportunity. \"It's got strings.\"\n\n\"Yes. I was playing when you came in. I saw you enter the window.\nReally, David, are you in the habit of walking into people's houses\nlike this? It is most disconcerting--to their owners.\"\n\n\"Yes--no--well, sometimes.\" David's eyes were still on the harp. \"Lady\nof the Roses, won't you please play again--on that?\"\n\n\"David, you are incorrigible! Why did you come into my house like this?\"\n\n\"The music said 'come'; and the towers, too. You see, I KNOW the\ntowers.\"\n\n\"You KNOW them!\"\n\n\"Yes. I can see them from so many places, and I always watch for them.\nThey show best of anywhere, though, from Jack and Jill's. And now won't\nyou play?\"\n\nMiss Holbrook had almost risen to her feet when she turned abruptly.\n\n\"From--where?\" she asked.\n\n\"From Jack and Jill's--the House that Jack Built, you know.\"\n\n\"You mean--Mr. John Gurnsey's house?\" A deeper color had come into Miss\nHolbrook's cheeks.\n\n\"Yes. Over there at the top of the little hill across the brook, you\nknow. You can't see THEIR house from here, but from over there we can\nsee the towers finely, and the little window--Oh, Lady of the Roses,\"\nhe broke off excitedly, at the new thought that had come to him, \"if\nwe, now, were in that little window, we COULD see their house. Let's go\nup. Can't we?\"\n\nExplicit as this was, Miss Holbrook evidently did not hear, or at least\ndid not understand, this request. She settled back on the divan,\nindeed, almost determinedly. Her cheeks were very red now.\n\n\"And do you know--this Mr. Jack?\" she asked lightly.\n\n\"Yes, and Jill, too. Don't you? I like them, too. DO you know them?\"\n\nAgain Miss Holbrook ignored the question put to her. \"And did you walk\ninto their house, unannounced and uninvited, like this?\" she queried.\n\n\"No. He asked me. You see he wanted to get off some of the dirt and\nblood before other folks saw me.\"\n\n \"The dirt and--and--why, David, what do you mean? What was\nit--an accident?\"\n\nDavid frowned and reflected a moment.\n\n\"No. I did it on purpose. I HAD to, you see,\" he finally elucidated.\n\"But there were six of them, and I got the worst of it.\"\n\n\"David!\" Miss Holbrook's voice was horrified. \"You don't mean--a fight!\"\n\n\"Yes'm. I wanted the cat--and I got it, but I wouldn't have if Mr. Jack\nhadn't come to help me.\"\n\n\"Oh! So Mr. Jack--fought, too?\"\n\n\"Well, he pulled the others off, and of course that helped me,\"\nexplained David truthfully. \"And then he took me home--he and Jill.\"\n\n\"Jill! Was she in it?\"\n\n\"No, only her cat. They had tied a bag over its head and a tin can to\nits tail, and of course I couldn't let them do that. They were hurting\nher. And now, Lady of the Roses, won't you please play?\"\n\nFor a moment Miss Holbrook did not speak. She was gazing at David with\nan odd look in her eyes. At last she drew a long sigh.\n\n\"David, you are the--the LIMIT!\" she breathed, as she rose and seated\nherself at the harp.\n\nDavid was manifestly delighted with her playing, and begged for more\nwhen she had finished; but Miss Holbrook shook her head. She seemed to\nhave grown suddenly restless, and she moved about the room calling\nDavid's attention to something new each moment. Then, very abruptly,\nshe suggested that they go upstairs. From room to room she hurried the\nboy, scarcely listening to his ardent comments, or answering his still\nmore ardent questions. Not until they reached the highest tower room,\nindeed, did she sink wearily into a chair, and seem for a moment at\nrest.\n\nDavid looked about him in surprise. Even his untrained eye could see\nthat he had entered a different world. There were no sumptuous rugs, no\nsilken hangings; no mirrors, no snowflake curtains. There were books,\nto be sure, but besides those there were only a plain low table, a\nwork-basket, and three or four wooden-seated though comfortable chairs.\nWith increasing wonder he looked into Miss Holbrook's eyes.\n\n\"Is it here that you stay--all day?\" he asked diffidently.\n\nMiss Holbrook's face turned a vivid scarlet.\n\n\"Why, David, what a question! Of course not! Why should you think I\ndid?\"\n\n\"Nothing; only I've been wondering all the time I've been here how you\ncould--with all those beautiful things around you downstairs--say what\nyou did.\"\n\n\"Say what?--when?\"\n\n\"That other day in the garden--about ALL your hours being cloudy ones.\nSo I didn't know to-day but what you LIVED up here, same as Mrs. Holly\ndoesn't use her best rooms; and that was why your hours were all cloudy\nones.\"\n\nWith a sudden movement Miss Holbrook rose to her feet.\n\n\"Nonsense, David! You shouldn't always remember everything that people\nsay to you. Come, you haven't seen one of the views from the windows\nyet. We are in the larger tower, you know. You can see Hinsdale village\non this side, and there's a fine view of the mountains over there. Oh\nyes, and from the other side there's your friend's house--Mr. Jack's.\nBy the way, how is Mr. Jack these days?\" Miss Holbrook stooped as she\nasked the question and picked up a bit of thread from the rug.\n\nDavid ran at once to the window that looked toward the House that Jack\nBuilt. From the tower the little house appeared to be smaller than\never. It was in the shadow, too, and looked strangely alone and\nforlorn. Unconsciously, as he gazed at it, David compared it with the\nmagnificence he had just seen. His voice choked as he answered.\n\n\"He isn't well, Lady of the Roses, and he's unhappy. He's awfully\nunhappy.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook's slender figure came up with a jerk.\n\n\"What do you mean, boy? How do you know he's unhappy? Has he said so?\"\n\n\"No; but Mrs. Holly told me about him. He's sick; and he'd just found\nhis work to do out in the world when he had to stop and come home.\nBut--oh, quick, there he is! See?\"\n\nInstead of coming nearer Miss Holbrook fell back to the center of the\nroom; but her eyes were still turned toward the little house.\n\n\"Yes, I see,\" she murmured. The next instant she had snatched a\nhandkerchief from David's outstretched hand. \"No--no--I wouldn't wave,\"\nshe remonstrated hurriedly. \"Come--come downstairs with me.\"\n\n\"But I thought--I was sure he was looking this way,\" asserted David,\nturning reluctantly from the window. \"And if he HAD seen me wave to\nhim, he'd have been so glad; now, wouldn't he?\"\n\nThere was no answer. The Lady of the Roses did not apparently hear. She\nhad gone on down the stairway.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nSECRETS\n\nDavid had so much to tell Jack and Jill that he went to see them the\nvery next day after his second visit to Sunnycrest. He carried his\nviolin with him. He found, however, only Jill at home. She was sitting\non the veranda steps.\n\nThere was not so much embarrassment between them this time, perhaps\nbecause they were in the freedom of the wide out-of-doors, and David\nfelt more at ease. He was plainly disappointed, however, that Mr. Jack\nwas not there.\n\n\"But I wanted to see him! I wanted to see him 'specially,\" he lamented.\n\n\"You'd better stay, then. He'll be home by and by,\" comforted Jill.\n\"He's gone pot-boiling.\"\n\n\"Pot-boiling! What's that?\"\n\nJill chuckled.\n\n\"Well, you see, really it's this way: he sells something to boil in\nother people's pots so he can have something to boil in ours, he says.\nIt's stuff from the garden, you know. We raise it to sell. Poor\nJack--and he does hate it so!\"\n\nDavid nodded sympathetically.\n\n\"I know--and it must be awful, just hoeing and weeding all the time.\"\n\n\"Still, of course he knows he's got to do it, because it's out of\ndoors, and he just has to be out of doors all he can,\" rejoined the\ngirl. \"He's sick, you know, and sometimes he's so unhappy! He doesn't\nsay much. Jack never says much--only with his face. But I know, and\nit--it just makes me want to cry.\"\n\nAt David's dismayed exclamation Jill jumped to her feet. It owned to\nher suddenly that she was telling this unknown boy altogether too many\nof the family secrets. She proposed at once a race to the foot of the\nhill; and then, to drive David's mind still farther away from the\nsubject under recent consideration, she deliberately lost, and\nproclaimed him the victor.\n\nVery soon, however, there arose new complications in the shape of a\nlittle gate that led to a path which, in its turn, led to a footbridge\nacross the narrow span of the little stream.\n\nAbove the trees on the other side peeped the top of Sunnycrest's\nhighest tower.\n\n\"To the Lady of the Roses!\" cried David eagerly. \"I know it goes there.\nCome, let's see!\"\n\nThe little girl shook her head.\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Jack won't let me.\"\n\n\"But it goes to a beautiful place; I was there yesterday,\" argued\nDavid. \"And I was up in the tower and almost waved to Mr. Jack on the\npiazza back there. I saw him. And maybe she'd let you and me go up\nthere again to-day.\"\n\n\"But I can't, I say,\" repeated Jill, a little impatiently. \"Jack won't\nlet me even start.\"\n\n\"Why not? Maybe he doesn't know where it goes to.\"\n\nJill hung her head. Then she raised it defiantly.\n\n\"Oh, yes, he does, 'cause I told him. I used to go when I was littler\nand he wasn't here. I went once, after he came,--halfway,--and he saw\nme and called to me. I had got halfway across the bridge, but I had to\ncome back. He was very angry, yet sort of--queer, too. His face was all\nstern and white, and his lips snapped tight shut after every word. He\nsaid never, never, never to let him find me the other side of that\ngate.\"\n\nDavid frowned as they turned to go up the hill. Unhesitatingly he\ndetermined to instruct Mr. Jack in this little matter. He would tell\nhim what a beautiful place Sunnycrest was, and he would try to convince\nhim how very desirable it was that he and Jill, and even Mr. Jack\nhimself, should go across the bridge at the very first opportunity that\noffered.\n\nMr. Jack came home before long, but David quite forgot to speak of the\nfootbridge just then, chiefly because Mr. Jack got out his violin and\nasked David to come in and play a duet with him. The duet, however,\nsoon became a solo, for so great was Mr. Jack's delight in David's\nplaying that he placed before the boy one sheet of music after another,\nbegging and still begging for more.\n\nDavid, nothing loath, played on and on. Most of the music he knew,\nhaving already learned it in his mountain home. Like old friends the\nmelodies seemed, and so glad was David to see their notes again that he\nfinished each production with a little improvised cadenza of ecstatic\nwelcome--to Mr. Jack's increasing surprise and delight.\n\n\"Great Scott! you're a wonder, David,\" he exclaimed, at last.\n\n\"Pooh! as if that was anything wonderful,\" laughed the boy. \"Why, I\nknew those ages ago, Mr. Jack. It's only that I'm so glad to see them\nagain--the notes, you know. You see, I haven't any music now. It was\nall in the bag (what we brought), and we left that on the way.\"\n\n\"You left it!\"\n\n\"Yes, 't was so, heavy\" murmured David abstractedly, his fingers busy\nwith the pile of music before him. \"Oh, and here's another one,\" he\ncried exultingly. \"This is where the wind sighs, 'oou--OOU--OOU'\nthrough the pines. Listen!\" And he was away again on the wings of his\nviolin. When he had returned Mr. Jack drew a long breath.\n\n\"David, you are a wonder,\" he declared again. \"And that violin of yours\nis a wonder, too, if I'm not mistaken,--though I don't know enough to\ntell whether it's really a rare one or not. Was it your father's?\"\n\n\"Oh, no. He had one, too, and they both are good ones. Father said so.\nJoe's got father's now.\"\n\n\"Joe?\"\n\n\"Joe Glaspell.\"\n\n\"You don't mean Widow Glaspell's Joe, the blind boy? I didn't know he\ncould play.\"\n\n\"He couldn't till I showed him. But he likes to hear me play. And he\nunderstood--right away, I mean.\"\n\n\"UNDERSTOOD!\"\n\n\"What I was playing, you know. And he was almost the first one that\ndid--since father went away. And now I play every time I go there. Joe\nsays he never knew before how trees and grass and sunsets and sunrises\nand birds and little brooks did look, till I told him with my violin.\nNow he says he thinks he can see them better than I can, because as\nlong as his OUTSIDE eyes can't see anything, they can't see those ugly\nthings all around him, and so he can just make his INSIDE eyes see only\nthe beautiful things that he'd LIKE to see. And that's the kind he does\nsee when I play. That's why I said he understood.\"\n\nFor a moment there was silence. In Mr. Jack's eyes there was an odd\nlook as they rested on David's face. Then, abruptly, he spoke.\n\n\"David, I wish I had money. I'd put you then where you belonged,\" he\nsighed.\n\n\"Do you mean--where I'd find my work to do?\" asked the boy softly.\n\n\"Well--yes; you might say it that way,\" smiled the man, after a\nmoment's hesitation--not yet was Mr. Jack quite used to this boy who\nwas at times so very un-boylike.\n\n\"Father told me 't was waiting for me--somewhere.\"\n\nMr. Jack frowned thoughtfully.\n\n\"And he was right, David. The only trouble is, we like to pick it out\nfor ourselves, pretty well,--too well, as we find out sometimes, when\nwe're called off--for another job.\"\n\n\"I know, Mr. Jack, I know,\" breathed David. And the man, looking into\nthe glowing dark eyes, wondered at what he found there. It was almost\nas if the boy really understood about his own life's\ndisappointment--and cared; though that, of course, could not be!\n\n\"And it's all the harder to keep ourselves in tune then, too, is n't\nit?\" went on David, a little wistfully.\n\n\"In tune?\"\n\n\"With the rest of the Orchestra.\"\n\n\"Oh!\"  And Mr. Jack, who had already heard about the \"Orchestra of\nLife,\" smiled a bit sadly. \"That's just it, my boy. And if we're handed\nanother instrument to play on than the one we WANT to play on, we're\napt to--to let fly a discord. Anyhow, I am. But\"--he went on more\nlightly--\"now, in your case, David, little as I know about the violin,\nI know enough to understand that you ought to be where you can take up\nyour study of it again; where you can hear good music, and where you\ncan be among those who know enough to appreciate what you do.\"\n\nDavid's eyes sparkled.\n\n\"And where there wouldn't be any pulling weeds or hoeing dirt?\"\n\n\"Well, I hadn't thought of including either of those pastimes.\"\n\n\"My, but I would like that, Mr. Jack!--but THAT wouldn't be WORK, so\nthat couldn't be what father meant.\" David's face fell.\n\n\"Hm-m; well, I wouldn't worry about the 'work' part,\" laughed Mr. Jack,\n\"particularly as you aren't going to do it just now. There's the money,\nyou know,--and we haven't got that.\"\n\n\"And it takes money?\"\n\n\"Well--yes. You can't get those things here in Hinsdale, you know; and\nit takes money, to get away, and to live away after you get there.\"\n\nA sudden light transfigured David's face.\n\n\"Mr. Jack, would gold do it?--lots of little round gold-pieces?\"\n\n\"I think it would, David, if there were enough of them.\"\n\n\"Many as a hundred?\"\n\n\"Sure--if they were big enough. Anyway, David, they'd start you, and\nI'm thinking you wouldn't need but a start before you'd be coining\ngold-pieces of your own out of that violin of yours. But why? Anybody\nyou know got as 'many as a hundred' gold-pieces he wants to get rid of?\"\n\nFor a moment David, his delighted thoughts flying to the gold-pieces in\nthe chimney cupboard of his room, was tempted to tell his secret. Then\nhe remembered the woman with the bread and the pail of milk, and\ndecided not to. He would wait. When he knew Mr. Jack better--perhaps\nthen he would tell; but not now.  NOW Mr. Jack might think he was a\nthief, and that he could not bear. So he took up his violin and began\nto play; and in the charm of the music Mr. Jack seemed to forget the\ngold-pieces--which was exactly what David had intended should happen.\n\nNot until David had said good-bye some time later, did he remember the\npurpose--the special purpose--for which he had come. He turned back\nwith a radiant face.\n\n\"Oh, and Mr. Jack, I 'most forgot,\" he cried. \"I was going to tell you.\nI saw you yesterday--I did, and I almost waved to you.\"\n\n\"Did you? Where were you?\"\n\n\"Over there in the window--the tower window\" he crowed jubilantly.\n\n\"Oh, you went again, then, I suppose, to see Miss Holbrook.\"\n\nThe man's voice sounded so oddly cold and distant that David noticed it\nat once. He was reminded suddenly of the gate and the footbridge which\nJill was forbidden to cross; but he dared not speak of it then--not\nwhen Mr. Jack looked like that. He did say, however:--\n\n\"Oh, but, Mr. Jack, it's such a beautiful place! You don't know what a\nbeautiful place it is.\"\n\n\"Is it? Then, you like it so much?\"\n\n\"Oh, so much! But--didn't you ever--see it?\"\n\n \"Why, yes, I believe I did, David, long ago,\" murmured Mr. Jack\nwith what seemed to David amazing indifference.\n\n\"And did you see HER--my Lady of the Roses?\"\n\n\"Why, y--yes--I believe so.\"\n\n\"And is THAT all you remember about it?\" resented David, highly\noffended.\n\nThe man gave a laugh--a little short, hard laugh that David did not\nlike.\n\n\"But, let me see; you said you almost waved, didn't you? Why did n't\nyou, quite?\" asked the man.\n\nDavid drew himself suddenly erect. Instinctively he felt that his Lady\nof the Roses needed defense.\n\n\"Because SHE didn't want me to; so I didn't, of course,\" he rejoined\nwith dignity. \"She took away my handkerchief.\"\n\n\"I'll warrant she did,\" muttered the man, behind his teeth. Aloud he\nonly laughed again, as he turned away.\n\nDavid went on down the steps, dissatisfied vaguely with himself, with\nMr. Jack, and even with the Lady of the Roses.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nDAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN\n\nOn his return from the House that Jack Built, David decided to count\nhis gold-pieces. He got them out at once from behind the books, and\nstacked them up in little shining rows. As he had surmised, there were\na hundred of them. There were, indeed, a hundred and six. He was\npleased at that. One hundred and six were surely enough to give him a\n\"start.\"\n\nA start! David closed his eyes and pictured it. To go on with his\nviolin, to hear good music, to be with people who understood what he\nsaid when he played! That was what Mr. Jack had said a \"start\" was. And\nthis gold--these round shining bits of gold--could bring him this!\nDavid swept the little piles into a jingling heap, and sprang to his\nfeet with both fists full of his suddenly beloved wealth. With boyish\nglee he capered about the room, jingling the coins in his hands. Then,\nvery soberly, he sat down again, and began to gather the gold to put\naway.\n\nHe would be wise--he would be sensible. He would watch his chance, and\nwhen it came he would go away. First, however, he would tell Mr. Jack\nand Joe, and the Lady of the Roses; yes, and the Hollys, too. Just now\nthere seemed to be work, real work that he could do to help Mr. Holly.\nBut later, possibly when September came and school,--they had said he\nmust go to school,--he would tell them then, and go away instead. He\nwould see. By that time they would believe him, perhaps, when he showed\nthe gold-pieces. They would not think he had--STOLEN them. It was\nAugust now; he would wait. But meanwhile he could think--he could\nalways be thinking of the wonderful thing that this gold was one day to\nbring to him.\n\nEven work, to David, did not seem work now. In the morning he was to\nrake hay behind the men with the cart. Yesterday he had not liked it\nvery well; but now--nothing mattered now. And with a satisfied sigh\nDavid put his precious gold away again behind the books in the cupboard.\n\nDavid found a new song in his violin the next morning. To be sure, he\ncould not play it--much of it--until four o'clock in the afternoon\ncame; for Mr. Holly did not like violins to be played in the morning,\neven on days that were not especially the Lord's. There was too much\nwork to do. So David could only snatch a strain or two very, very\nsoftly, while he was dressing; but that was enough to show him what a\nbeautiful song it was going to be. He knew what it was, at once, too.\nIt was the gold-pieces, and what they would bring. All through the day\nit tripped through his consciousness, and danced tantalizingly just out\nof reach. Yet he was wonderfully happy, and the day seemed short in\nspite of the heat and the weariness.\n\nAt four o'clock he hurried home and put his violin quickly in tune. It\ncame then--that dancing sprite of tantalization--and joyously abandoned\nitself to the strings of the violin, so that David knew, of a surety,\nwhat a beautiful song it was.\n\nIt was this song that sent him the next afternoon to see his Lady of\nthe Roses. He found her this time out of doors in her garden.\nUnceremoniously, as usual, he rushed headlong into her presence.\n\n\"Oh, Lady--Lady of the Roses,\" he panted. \"I've found out, and I came\nquickly to tell you.\"\n\n\"Why, David, what--what do you mean?\" Miss Holbrook looked unmistakably\nstartled.\n\n\"About the hours, you know,--the unclouded ones,\" explained David\neagerly. \"You know you said they were ALL cloudy to you.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook's face grew very white.\n\n\"You mean--you've found out WHY my hours are--are all cloudy ones?\" she\nstammered.\n\n\"No, oh, no. I can't imagine why they are,\" returned David, with an\nemphatic shake of his head. \"It's just that I've found a way to make\nall my hours sunny ones, and you can do it, too. So I came to tell you.\nYou know you said yours were all cloudy.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" ejaculated Miss Holbrook, falling back into her old listless\nattitude. Then, with some asperity: \"Dear me, David! Did n't I tell you\nnot to be remembering that all the time?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, but I've LEARNED something,\" urged the boy; \"something\nthat you ought to know. You see, I did think, once, that because you\nhad all these beautiful things around you, the hours ought to be all\nsunny ones. But now I know it isn't what's around you; it's what is IN\nyou!\"\n\n\"Oh, David, David, you curious boy!\"\n\n\"No, but really! Let me tell you,\" pleaded David. \"You know I haven't\nliked them,--all those hours till four o'clock came,--and I was so\nglad, after I saw the sundial, to find out that they didn't count,\nanyhow. But to-day they HAVE counted--they've all counted, Lady of the\nRoses; and it's just because there was something inside of me that\nshone and shone, and made them all sunny--those hours.\"\n\n\"Dear me! And what was this wonderful thing?\"\n\nDavid smiled, but he shook his head.\n\n\"I can't tell you that yet--in words; but I'll play it. You see, I\ncan't always play them twice alike,--those little songs that I\nfind,--but this one I can. It sang so long in my head, before my violin\nhad a chance to tell me what it really was, that I sort of learned it.\nNow, listen!\" And he began to play.\n\nIt was, indeed, a beautiful song, and Miss Holbrook said so with\npromptness and enthusiasm; yet still David frowned.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" he answered, \"but don't you see? That was telling you about\nsomething inside of me that made all my hours sunshiny ones. Now, what\nyou want is something inside of you to make yours sunshiny, too. Don't\nyou see?\"\n\nAn odd look came into Miss Holbrook's eyes.\n\n\"That's all very well for you to say, David, but you haven't told me\nyet, you know, just what it is that's made all this brightness for you.\"\n\nThe boy changed his position, and puckered his forehead into a deeper\nfrown.\n\n\"I don't seem to explain so you can understand,\" he sighed. \"It isn't\nthe SPECIAL thing. It's only that it's SOMETHING. And it's thinking\nabout it that does it. Now, mine wouldn't make yours shine,\nbut--still,\"--he broke off, a happy relief in his eyes,--\"yours could\nbe LIKE mine, in one way. Mine is something that is going to happen to\nme--something just beautiful; and you could have that, you\nknow,--something that was going to happen to you, to think about.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook smiled, but only with her lips, Her eyes had grown somber.\n\n\"But there isn't anything 'just beautiful' going to happen to me,\nDavid,\" she demurred.\n\n\"There could, couldn't there?\"\n\nMiss Holbrook bit, her lip; then she gave an odd little laugh that\nseemed, in some way, to go with the swift red that had come to her\ncheeks.\n\n\"I used to think there could--once,\" she admitted; \"but I've given that\nup long ago. It--it didn't happen.\"\n\n\"But couldn't you just THINK it was going to?\" persisted the boy. \"You\nsee I found out yesterday that it's the THINKING that does it. All day\nlong I was thinking--only thinking. I wasn't DOING it, at all. I was\nreally raking behind the cart; but the hours all were sunny.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook laughed now outright.\n\n\"What a persistent little mental-science preacher you are!\" she\nexclaimed. \"And there's truth--more truth than you know--in it all,\ntoo. But I can't do it, David,--not that--not that. 'T would take more\nthan THINKING--to bring that,\" she added, under her breath, as if to\nherself.\n\n\"But thinking does bring things,\" maintained David earnestly. \"There's\nJoe--Joe Glaspell. His mother works out all day; and he's blind.\"\n\n\"Blind? Oh-h!\" shuddered Miss Holbrook.\n\n\"Yes; and he has to stay all alone, except for Betty, and she is n't\nthere much. He THINKS ALL his things. He has to. He can't SEE anything\nwith his outside eyes. But he sees everything with his inside\neyes--everything that I play. Why, Lady of the Roses, he's even seen\nthis--all this here. I told him about it, you know, right away after\nI'd found you that first day: the big trees and the long shadows across\nthe grass, and the roses, and the shining water, and the lovely marble\npeople peeping through the green leaves; and the sundial, and you so\nbeautiful sitting here in the middle of it all. Then I played it for\nhim; and he said he could see it all just as plain! And THAT was with\nhis inside eyes! And so, if Joe, shut up there in his dark little room,\ncan make his THINK bring him all that, I should think that YOU, here in\nthis beautiful, beautiful place, could make your think bring you\nanything you wanted it to.\"\n\nBut Miss Holbrook sighed again and shook her head.\n\n\"Not that, David, not that,\" she murmured. \"It would take more than\nthinking to bring--that.\" Then, with a quick change of manner, she\ncried: \"Come, come, suppose we don't worry any more about MY hours.\nLet's think of yours. Tell me, what have you been doing since I saw you\nlast? Perhaps you have been again to--to see Mr. Jack, for instance.\"\n\n\"I have; but I saw Jill mostly, till the last.\" David hesitated, then\nhe blurted it out: \"Lady of the Roses, do you know about the gate and\nthe footbridge?\"\n\nMiss Holbrook looked up quickly.\n\n\"Know--what, David?\"\n\n\"Know about them--that they're there?\"\n\n\"Why--yes, of course; at least, I suppose you mean the footbridge that\ncrosses the little stream at the foot of the hill over there.\"\n\n\"That's the one.\" Again David hesitated, and again he blurted out the\nburden of his thoughts. \"Lady of the Roses, did you ever--cross that\nbridge?\"\n\nMiss Holbrook stirred uneasily.\n\n\"Not--recently.\"\n\n\"But you don't MIND folks crossing it?\"\n\n\"Certainly not--if they wish to.\"\n\n\"There! I knew 't wasn't your blame,\" triumphed David.\n\n\"MY blame!\"\n\n\"Yes; that Mr. Jack wouldn't let Jill come across, you know. He called\nher back when she'd got halfway over once.\" Miss Holbrook's face\nchanged color.\n\n\"But I do object,\" she cried sharply, \"to their crossing it when they\nDON'T want to! Don't forget that, please.\"\n\n\"But Jill did want to.\"\n\n\"How about her brother--did he want her to?\"\n\n\"N--no.\"\n\n\"Very well, then. I didn't, either.\"\n\nDavid frowned. Never had he seen his beloved Lady of the Roses look\nlike this before. He was reminded of what Jill had said about Jack:\n\"His face was all stern and white, and his lips snapped tight shut\nafter every word.\" So, too, looked Miss Holbrook's face; so, too, had\nher lips snapped tight shut after her last words. David could not\nunderstand it. He said nothing more, however; but, as was usually the\ncase when he was perplexed, he picked up his violin and began to play.\nAnd as he played, there gradually came to Miss Holbrook's eyes a softer\nlight, and to her lips lines less tightly drawn. Neither the footbridge\nnor Mr. Jack, however, was mentioned again that afternoon.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\"THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER\"\n\nIt was in the early twilight that Mr. Jack told the story. He, Jill,\nand David were on the veranda, as usual watching the towers of\nSunnycrest turn from gold to silver as the sun dropped behind the\nhills. It was Jill who had asked for the story.\n\n\"About fairies and princesses, you know,\" she had ordered.\n\n\"But how will David like that?\" Mr. Jack had demurred. \"Maybe he\ndoesn't care for fairies and princesses.\"\n\n\"I read one once about a prince--'t was 'The Prince and the Pauper,'\nand I liked that,\" averred David stoutly.\n\nMr. Jack smiled; then his brows drew together in a frown. His eyes were\nmoodily fixed on the towers.\n\n\"Hm-m; well,\" he said, \"I might, I suppose, tell you a story about a\nPRINCESS and--a Pauper. I--know one well enough.\"\n\n\"Good!--then tell it,\" cried both Jill and David. And Mr. Jack began\nhis story.\n\n\"She was not always a Princess, and he was not always a Pauper,--and\nthat's where the story came in, I suppose,\" sighed the man. \"She was\njust a girl, once, and he was a boy; and they played together\nand--liked each other. He lived in a little house on a hill.\"\n\n\"Like this?\" demanded Jill.\n\n\"Eh? Oh--er--yes, SOMETHING like this,\" returned Mr. Jack, with an odd\nhalf-smile. \"And she lived in another bit of a house in a town far away\nfrom the boy.\"\n\n\"Then how could they play together?\" questioned David.\n\n\"They couldn't, ALWAYS. It was only summers when she came to visit in\nthe boy's town. She was very near him then, for the old aunt whom she\nvisited lived in a big stone house with towers, on another hill, in\nplain sight from the boy's home.\"\n\n\"Towers like those--where the Lady of the Roses lives?\" asked David.\n\n\"Eh? What? Oh--er--yes,\" murmured Mr. Jack. \"We'll say the towers were\nsomething like those over there.\" He paused, then went on musingly:\n\"The girl used to signal, sometimes, from one of the tower windows. One\nwave of the handkerchief meant, 'I'm coming, over'; two waves, with a\nlittle pause between, meant, 'You are to come over here.' So the boy\nused to wait always, after that first wave to see if another followed;\nso that he might know whether he were to be host or guest that day. The\nwaves always came at eight o'clock in the morning, and very eagerly the\nboy used to watch for them all through the summer when the girl was\nthere.\"\n\n\"Did they always come, every morning?\" Asked Jill.\n\n\"No; sometimes the girl had other things to do. Her aunt would want her\nto go somewhere with her, or other cousins were expected whom the girl\nmust entertain; and she knew the boy did not like other guests to be\nthere when he was, so she never asked him to come over at such times.\nOn such occasions she did sometimes run up to the tower at eight\no'clock and wave three times, and that meant, 'Dead Day.' So the boy,\nafter all, never drew a real breath of relief until he made sure that\nno dreaded third wave was to follow the one or the two.\"\n\n\"Seems to me,\" observed David, \"that all this was sort of one-sided.\nDidn't the boy say anything?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" smiled Mr. Jack. \"But the boy did not have any tower to wave\nfrom, you must remember. He had only the little piazza on his tiny bit\nof a house. But he rigged up a pole, and he asked his mother to make\nhim two little flags, a red and a blue one. The red meant 'All right';\nand the blue meant 'Got to work'; and these he used to run up on his\npole in answer to her waving 'I'm coming over,' or 'You are to come\nover here.' So, you see, occasionally it was the boy who had to bring\nthe 'Dead Day,' as there were times when he had to work. And, by the\nway, perhaps you would be interested to know that after a while he\nthought up a third flag to answer her three waves. He found an old\nblack silk handkerchief of his father's, and he made that into a flag.\nHe told the girl it meant 'I'm heartbroken,' and he said it was a sign\nof the deepest mourning. The girl laughed and tipped her head saucily\nto one side, and said, 'Pooh! as if you really cared!' But the boy\nstoutly maintained his position, and it was that, perhaps, which made\nher play the little joke one day.\n\n\"The boy was fourteen that summer, and the girl thirteen. They had\nbegun their signals years before, but they had not had the black one so\nlong. On this day that I tell you of, the girl waved three waves, which\nmeant, 'Dead Day,' you remember, and watched until the boy had hoisted\nhis black flag which said, 'I'm heart-broken,' in response. Then, as\nfast as her mischievous little feet could carry her, she raced down one\nhill and across to the other. Very stealthily she advanced till she\nfound the boy bent over a puzzle on the back stoop, and--and he was\nwhistling merrily.\n\n\"How she teased him then! How she taunted him with 'Heart-broken,\nindeed--and whistling like that!' In vain he blushed and stammered, and\nprotested that his whistling was only to keep up his spirits. The girl\nonly laughed and tossed her yellow curls; then she hunted till she\nfound some little jingling bells, and these she tied to the black badge\nof mourning and pulled it high up on the flagpole. The next instant she\nwas off with a run and a skip, and a saucy wave of her hand; and the\nboy was left all alone with an hour's work ahead of him to untie the\nknots from his desecrated badge of mourning.\n\n\"And yet they were wonderfully good friends--this boy and girl. From\nthe very first, when they were seven and eight, they had said that they\nwould marry each other when they grew up, and always they spoke of it\nas the expected thing, and laid many happy plans for the time when it\nshould come. To be sure, as they grew older, it was not mentioned quite\nso often, perhaps; but the boy at least thought--if he thought of it\nall--that that was only because it was already so well understood.\"\n\n\"What did the girl think?\" It was Jill who asked the question.\n\n\"Eh? The girl? Oh,\" answered Mr. Jack, a little bitterly, \"I'm afraid I\ndon't know exactly what the girl did think, but--it was n't that,\nanyhow--that is, judging from what followed.\"\n\n\"What did follow?\"\n\n\"Well, to begin with, the old aunt died. The girl was sixteen then. It\nwas in the winter that this happened, and the girl was far away at\nschool. She came to the funeral, however, but the boy did not see her,\nsave in the distance; and then he hardly knew her, so strange did she\nlook in her black dress and hat. She was there only two days, and\nthough he gazed wistfully up at the gray tower, he knew well enough\nthat of course she could not wave to him at such a time as that. Yet he\nhad hoped--almost believed that she would wave two waves that last day,\nand let him go over to see her.\n\n\"But she didn't wave, and he didn't go over. She went away. And then\nthe town learned a wonderful thing. The old lady, her aunt, who had\nbeen considered just fairly rich, turned out to be the possessor of\nalmost fabulous wealth, owing to her great holdings of stock in a\nWestern gold mine which had suddenly struck it rich. And to the girl\nshe willed it all. It was then, of course, that the girl became the\nPrincess, but the boy did not realize that--just then. To him she was\nstill 'the girl.'\n\n\"For three years he did not see her. She was at school, or traveling\nabroad, he heard. He, too, had been away to school, and was, indeed,\njust ready to enter college. Then, that summer, he heard that she was\ncoming to the old home, and his heart sang within him. Remember, to him\nshe was still the girl. He knew, of course, that she was not the LITTLE\ngirl who had promised to marry him. But he was sure she was the merry\ncomrade, the true-hearted young girl who used to smile frankly into his\neyes, and whom he was now to win for his wife. You see he had\nforgotten--quite forgotten about the Princess and the money. Such a\nfoolish, foolish boy as he was!\n\n\"So he got out his flags gleefully, and one day, when his mother wasn't\nin the kitchen, he ironed out the wrinkles and smoothed them all ready\nto be raised on the pole. He would be ready when the girl waved--for of\ncourse she would wave; he would show her that he had not forgotten. He\ncould see just how the sparkle would come to her eyes, and just how the\nlittle fine lines of mischief would crinkle around her nose when she\nwas ready to give that first wave. He could imagine that she would like\nto find him napping; that she would like to take him by surprise, and\nmake him scurry around for his flags to answer her.\n\n\"But he would show her! As if she, a girl, were to beat him at their\nold game! He wondered which it would be: 'I'm coming over,' or, 'You\nare to come over here.' Whichever it was, he would answer, of course,\nwith the red 'All right.' Still, it WOULD be a joke to run up the blue\n'Got to work,' and then slip across to see her, just as she, so long\nago, had played the joke on him! On the whole, however, he thought the\nred flag would be better. And it was that one which he laid uppermost\nready to his hand, when he arranged them.\n\n\"At last she came. He heard of it at once. It was already past four\no'clock, but he could not forbear, even then, to look toward the tower.\nIt would be like her, after all, to wave then, that very night, just so\nas to catch him napping, he thought. She did not wave, however. The boy\nwas sure of that, for he watched the tower till dark.\n\n\"In the morning, long before eight o'clock, the boy was ready. He\ndebated for some time whether to stand out of doors on the piazza, or\nto hide behind the screened window, where he could still watch the\ntower. He decided at last that it would be better not to let her see\nhim when she looked toward the house; then his triumph would be all the\nmore complete when he dashed out to run up his answer.\n\n\"Eight o'clock came and passed. The boy waited until nine, but there\nwas no sign of life from the tower. The boy was angry then, at himself.\nHe called himself, indeed, a fool, to hide as he did. Of course she\nwouldn't wave when he was nowhere in sight--when he had apparently\nforgotten! And here was a whole precious day wasted!\n\n\"The next morning, long before eight, the boy stood in plain sight on\nthe piazza. As before he waited until nine; and as before there was no\nsign of life at the tower window. The next morning he was there again,\nand the next, and the next. It took just five days, indeed, to convince\nthe boy--as he was convinced at last--that the girl did not intend to\nwave at all.\"\n\n\"But how unkind of her!\" exclaimed David.\n\n\"She couldn't have been nice one bit!\" decided Jill.\n\n\"You forget,\" said Mr. Jack. \"She was the Princess.\"\n\n\"Huh!\" grunted Jill and David in unison.\n\n\"The boy remembered it then,\" went on Mr. Jack, after a pause,--\"about\nthe money, and that she was a Princess. And of course he knew--when he\nthought of it--that he could not expect that a Princess would wave like\na girl--just a girl. Besides, very likely she did not care particularly\nabout seeing him. Princesses did forget, he fancied,--they had so much,\nso very much to fill their lives. It was this thought that kept him\nfrom going to see her--this, and the recollection that, after all, if\nshe really HAD wanted to see him, she could have waved.\n\n\"There came a day, however, when another youth, who did not dare to go\nalone, persuaded him, and together they paid her a call. The boy\nunderstood, then, many things. He found the Princess; there was no sign\nof the girl. The Princess was tall and dignified, with a cold little\nhand and a smooth, sweet voice. There was no frank smile in her eyes,\nneither were there any mischievous crinkles about her nose and lips.\nThere was no mention of towers or flags; no reference to wavings or to\nchildhood's days. There was only a stiffly polite little conversation\nabout colleges and travels, with a word or two about books and plays.\nThen the callers went home. On the way the boy smiled scornfully to\nhimself. He was trying to picture the beauteous vision he had seen,\nthis unapproachable Princess in her filmy lace gown,--standing in the\ntower window and waving--waving to a bit of a house on the opposite\nhill. As if that could happen!\n\n\"The boy, during those last three years, had known only books. He knew\nlittle of girls--only one girl--and he knew still less of Princesses.\nSo when, three days after the call, there came a chance to join a\nsummer camp with a man who loved books even better than did the boy\nhimself, he went gladly. Once he had refused to go on this very trip;\nbut then there had been the girl. Now there was only the Princess--and\nthe Princess didn't count.\"\n\n\"Like the hours that aren't sunshiny,\" interpreted David.\n\n\"Yes,\" corroborated Mr. Jack. \"Like the hours when the sun does n't\nshine.\"\n\n\"And then?\" prompted Jill.\n\n\"Well, then,--there wasn't much worth telling,\" rejoined Mr. Jack\ngloomily. \"Two more years passed, and the Princess grew to be\ntwenty-one. She came into full control of her property then, and after\na while she came back to the old stone house with the towers and turned\nit into a fairyland of beauty. She spent money like water. All manner\nof artists, from the man who painted her ceilings to the man who\nplanted her seeds, came and bowed to her will. From the four corners of\nthe earth she brought her treasures and lavished them through the house\nand grounds. Then, every summer, she came herself, and lived among\nthem, a very Princess indeed.\"\n\n\"And the boy?--what became of the boy?\" demanded David. \"Didn't he see\nher--ever?\"\n\nMr. Jack shook his head.\n\n\"Not often, David; and when he did, it did not make him any--happier.\nYou see, the boy had become the Pauper; you must n't forget that.\"\n\n\"But he wasn't a Pauper when you left him last.\"\n\n\"Wasn't he? Well, then, I'll tell you about that. You see, the boy,\neven though he did go away, soon found out that in his heart the\nPrincess was still the girl, just the same. He loved her, and he wanted\nher to be his wife; so for a little--for a very little--he was wild\nenough to think that he might work and study and do great things in the\nworld until he was even a Prince himself, and then he could marry the\nPrincess.\"\n\n\"Well, couldn't he?\"\n\n\"No. To begin with, he lost his health. Then, away back in the little\nhouse on the hill something happened--a something that left a very\nprecious charge for him to keep; and he had to go back and keep it, and\nto try to see if he couldn't find that lost health, as well. And that\nis all.\"\n\n\"All! You don't mean that that is the end!\" exclaimed Jill.\n\n\"That's the end.\"\n\n\"But that isn't a mite of a nice end,\" complained David. \"They always\nget married and live happy ever after--in stories.\"\n\n\"Do they?\" Mr. Jack smiled a little sadly. \"Perhaps they do, David,--in\nstories.\"\n\n\"Well, can't they in this one?\"\n\n\"I don't see how.\"\n\n\"Why can't he go to her and ask her to marry him?\"\n\nMr. Jack drew himself up proudly.\n\n\"The Pauper and the Princess? Never! Paupers don't go to Princesses,\nDavid, and say, 'I love you.'\"\n\nDavid frowned.\n\n\"Why not? I don't see why--if they want to do it. Seems as if somehow\nit might be fixed.\"\n\n\"It can't be,\" returned Mr. Jack, his gaze on the towers that crowned\nthe opposite hill; \"not so long as always before the Pauper's eyes\nthere are those gray walls behind which he pictures the Princess in the\nmidst of her golden luxury.\"\n\nTo neither David nor Jill did the change to the present tense seem\nstrange. The story was much too real to them for that.\n\n\"Well, anyhow, I think it ought to be fixed,\" declared David, as he\nrose to his feet.\n\n\"So do I--but we can't fix it,\" laughed Jill. \"And I'm hungry. Let's\nsee what there is to eat!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nDAVID TO THE RESCUE\n\nIt was a beautiful moonlight night, but for once David was not thinking\nof the moon. All the way to the Holly farmhouse he was thinking of Mr.\nJack's story, \"The Princess and the Pauper.\" It held him strangely. He\nfelt that he never could forget it. For some reason that he could not\nhave explained, it made him sad, too, and his step was very quiet as he\nwent up the walk toward the kitchen door.\n\nIt was after eight o'clock. David had taken supper with Mr. Jack and\nJill, and not for some hours had he been at the farmhouse. In the\ndoorway now he stopped short; then instinctively he stepped back into\nthe shadow. In the kitchen a kerosene light was burning. It showed Mrs.\nHolly crying at the table, and Mr. Holly, white-faced and stern-lipped,\nstaring at nothing. Then Mrs. Holly raised her face, drawn and\ntear-stained, and asked a trembling question.\n\n\"Simeon, have you thought? We might go--to John--for--help.\"\n\nDavid was frightened then, so angry was the look that came into Simeon\nHolly's face.\n\n\"Ellen, we'll have no more of this,\" said the man harshly. \"Understand,\nI'd rather lose the whole thing and--and starve, than go to--John.\"\n\nDavid fled then. Up the back stairs he crept to his room and left his\nviolin. A moment later he stole down again and sought Perry Larson whom\nhe had seen smoking in the barn doorway.\n\n\"Perry, what is it?\" he asked in a trembling voice. \"What has\nhappened--in there?\" He pointed toward the house.\n\nThe man puffed for a moment in silence before he took his pipe from his\nmouth.\n\n\"Well, sonny, I s'pose I may as well tell ye. You'll have ter know it\nsometime, seein' as 't won't be no secret long. They've had a stroke o'\nbad luck--Mr. an' Mis' Holly has.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\nThe man hitched in his seat.\n\n\"By sugar, boy, I s'pose if I tell ye, there ain't no sartinty that\nyou'll sense it at all. I reckon it ain't in your class.\"\n\n\"But what is it?\"\n\n\"Well, it's money--and one might as well talk moonshine to you as\nmoney, I s'pose; but here goes it. It's a thousand dollars, boy, that\nthey owed. Here, like this,\" he explained, rummaging his pockets until\nhe had found a silver dollar to lay on his open palm. \"Now, jest\nimagine a thousand of them; that's heaps an' heaps--more 'n I ever see\nin my life.\"\n\n\"Like the stars?\" guessed David.\n\nThe man nodded.\n\n\"Ex-ACTLY! Well, they owed this--Mr. an' Mis' Holly did--and they had\nagreed ter pay it next Sat'day. And they was all right, too. They had\nit plum saved in the bank, an' was goin' ter draw it Thursday, ter make\nsure. An' they was feelin' mighty pert over it, too, when ter-day along\ncomes the news that somethin's broke kersmash in that bank, an' they've\nshet it up. An' nary a cent can the Hollys git now--an' maybe never.\nAnyhow, not 'fore it's too late for this job.\"\n\n\"But won't he wait?--that man they owe it to? I should think he'd have\nto, if they didn't have it to pay.\"\n\n\"Not much he will, when it's old Streeter that's got the mortgage on a\ngood fat farm like this!\"\n\nDavid drew his brows together perplexedly.\n\n\"What is a--a mortgage?\" he asked. \"Is it anything like a\nporte-cochere? I KNOW what that is, 'cause my Lady of the Roses has\none; but we haven't got that--down here.\"\n\nPerry Larson sighed in exasperation.\n\n\"Gosh, if that ain't 'bout what I expected of ye! No, it ain't even\nsecond cousin to a--a-that thing you're a-talkin' of. In plain wordin',\nit's jest this: Mr. Holly, he says ter Streeter: 'You give me a\nthousand dollars and I'll pay ye back on a sartin day; if I don't pay,\nyou can sell my farm fur what it'll bring, an' TAKE yer pay. Well, now\nhere 't is. Mr. Holly can't pay, an' so Streeter will put up the farm\nfur sale.\"\n\n\"What, with Mr. and Mrs. Holly LIVING here?\"\n\n\"Sure! Only they'll have ter git out, ye know.\"\n\n\"Where'll they go?\"\n\n\"The Lord knows; I don't.\"\n\n\"And is THAT what they're crying for--in there?--because they've got to\ngo?\"\n\n\"Sure!\"\n\n\"But isn't there anything, anywhere, that can be done to--stop it?\"\n\n\"I don't see how, kid,--not unless some one ponies up with the money\n'fore next Sat'day,--an' a thousand o' them things don't grow on ev'ry\nbush,\" he finished, gently patting the coin in his hand.\n\nAt the words a swift change came to David's face. His cheeks paled and\nhis eyes dilated in terror. It was as if ahead of him he saw a yawning\nabyss, eager to engulf him.\n\n\"And you say--MONEY would--fix it?\" he asked thickly.\n\n\"Ex-ACT-ly!--a thousand o' them, though, 't would take.\"\n\nA dawning relief came into David's eyes--it was as if he saw a bridge\nacross the abyss.\n\n\"You mean--that there wouldn't ANYTHING do, only silver pieces--like\nthose?\" he questioned hopefully.\n\n\"Sugar, kid, 'course there would! Gosh, but you BE a checkerboard o'\nsense an' nonsense, an' no mistake! Any money would do the job--any\nmoney! Don't ye see? Anything that's money.\"\n\n\"Would g-gold do it?\" David's voice was very faint now.\n\n\"Sure!--gold, or silver, or greenbacks, or--or a check, if it had the\ndough behind it.\"\n\nDavid did not appear to hear the last. With an oddly strained look he\nhad hung upon the man's first words; but at the end of the sentence he\nonly murmured, \"Oh, thank you,\" and turned away. He was walking slowly\nnow toward the house. His head was bowed. His step lagged.\n\n\"Now, ain't that jest like that chap,\" muttered the man, \"ter slink off\nlike that as if he was a whipped cur. I'll bet two cents an' a\ndoughnut, too, that in five minutes he'll be what he calls 'playin' it'\non that 'ere fiddle o' his. An' I'll be derned, too, if I ain't curious\nter see what he WILL make of it. It strikes me this ought ter fetch\nsomethin' first cousin to a dirge!\"\n\nOn the porch steps David paused a breathless instant. From the kitchen\ncame the sound of Mrs. Holly's sobs and of a stern voice praying. With\na shudder and a little choking cry the boy turned then and crept softly\nupstairs to his room.\n\nHe played, too, as Perry Larson had wagered. But it was not the tragedy\nof the closed bank, nor the honor of the threatened farm-selling that\nfell from his violin. It was, instead, the swan song of a little pile\nof gold--gold which lay now in a chimney cupboard, but which was soon\nto be placed at the feet of the mourning man and woman downstairs. And\nin the song was the sob of a boy who sees his house of dreams burn to\nashes; who sees his wonderful life and work out in the wide world turn\nto endless days of weed-pulling and dirt-digging in a narrow valley.\nThere was in the song, too, something of the struggle, the fierce yea\nand nay of the conflict. But, at the end, there was the wild burst of\nexaltation of renunciation, so that the man in the barn door below\nfairly sprang to his feet with an angry:--\n\n\"Gosh! if he hain't turned the thing into a jig--durn him! Don't he\nknow more'n that at such a time as this?\"\n\nLater, a very little later, the shadowy figure of the boy stood before\nhim.\n\n\"I've been thinking,\" stammered David, \"that maybe I--could help, about\nthat money, you know.\"\n\n\"Now, look a-here, boy,\" exploded Perry, in open exasperation, \"as I\nsaid in the first place, this ain't in your class. 'T ain't no pink\ncloud sailin' in the sky, nor a bluebird singin' in a blackb'rry bush.\nAn' you might 'play it'--as you call it--till doomsday, an' 't wouldn't\ndo no good--though I'm free ter confess that your playin' of them 'ere\nother things sounds real pert an' chirky at times; but 't won't do no\ngood here.\"\n\nDavid stepped forward, bringing his small, anxious face full into the\nmoonlight.\n\n\"But 't was the money, Perry; I meant about, the money,\" he explained.\n\"They were good to me and wanted me when there wasn't any one else that\ndid; and now I'd like to do something for them. There aren't so MANY\npieces, and they aren't silver. There's only one hundred and six of\nthem; I counted. But maybe they 'd help some. It--it would be\na--start.\" His voice broke over the once beloved word, then went on\nwith renewed strength. \"There, see! Would these do?\" And with both\nhands he held up to view his cap sagging under its weight of gold.\n\nPerry Larson's jaw fell open. His eyes bulged. Dazedly he reached out\nand touched with trembling fingers the heap of shining disks that\nseemed in the mellow light like little earth-born children of the moon\nitself. The next instant he recoiled sharply.\n\n\"Great snakes, boy, where'd you git that money?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Of father. He went to the far country, you know.\"\n\nPerry Larson snorted angrily.\n\n\"See here, boy, for once, if ye can, talk horse-sense! Surely, even YOU\ndon't expect me ter believe that he's sent you that money from--from\nwhere he's gone to!\"\n\n\"Oh, no. He left it.\"\n\n\"Left it! Why, boy, you know better! There wa'n't a cent--hardly--found\non him.\"\n\n\"He gave it to me before--by the roadside.\"\n\n\"Gave it to you! Where in the name of goodness has it been since?\"\n\n\"In the little cupboard in my room, behind the books.\"\n\n\"Great snakes!\" muttered Perry Larson, reaching out his hand and\ngingerly picking up one of the gold-pieces.\n\nDavid eyed him anxiously.\n\n\"Won't they--do?\" he faltered. \"There aren't a thousand; there's only a\nhundred and six; but--\"\n\n\"Do!\" cut in the man, excitedly. He had been examining the gold-piece\nat close range. \"Do! Well, I reckon they'll do. By Jiminy!--and ter\nthink you've had this up yer sleeve all this time! Well, I'll believe\nanythin' of yer now--anythin'! You can't stump me with nuthin'! Come\non.\" And he hurriedly led the way toward the house.\n\n\"But they weren't up my sleeve,\" corrected David, as he tried to keep\nup with the long strides of the man. \"I SAID they were in the cupboard\nin my room.\"\n\nThere was no answer. Larson had reached the porch steps, and had paused\nthere hesitatingly. From the kitchen still came the sound of sobs.\nAside from that there was silence. The boy, however, did not hesitate.\nHe went straight up the steps and through the open kitchen door. At the\ntable sat the man and the woman, their eyes covered with their hands.\n\nWith a swift overturning of his cap, David dumped his burden onto the\ntable, and stepped back respectfully.\n\n\"If you please, sir, would this--help any?\" he asked.\n\nAt the jingle of the coins Simeon Holly and his wife lifted their heads\nabruptly. A half-uttered sob died on the woman's lips. A quick cry came\nfrom the man's. He reached forth an eager hand and had almost clutched\nthe gold when a sudden change came to his face. With a stern\nejaculation he drew back.\n\n\"Boy, where did that money come from?\" he challenged.\n\nDavid sighed in a discouraged way. It seemed that, always, the showing\nof this gold mean't questioning--eternal questioning.\n\n\"Surely,\" continued Simeon Holly, \"you did not--\" With the boy's frank\ngaze upturned to his, the man could not finish his sentence.\n\nBefore David could answer came the voice of Perry Larson from the\nkitchen doorway.\n\n\"No, sir, he didn't, Mr. Holly; an' it's all straight, I'm\nthinkin'--though I'm free ter confess it does sound nutty. His dad give\nit to him.\"\n\n\"His--father! But where--where has it been ever since?\"\n\n\"In the chimney cupboard in his room, he says, sir.\"\n\nSimeon Holly turned in frowning amazement.\n\n\"David, what does this mean? Why have you kept this gold in a place\nlike that?\"\n\n\"Why, there wasn't anything else to do with it,\" answered the boy\nperplexedly. \"I hadn't any use for it, you know, and father said to\nkeep it till I needed it.\"\n\n\"'Hadn't any use for it'!\" blustered Larson from the doorway. \"Jiminy!\nNow, ain't that jest like that boy?\"\n\nBut David hurried on with his explanation.\n\n\"We never used to use them--father and I--except to buy things to eat\nand wear; and down here YOU give me those, you know.\"\n\n\"Gorry!\" interjected Perry Larson. \"Do you reckon, boy, that Mr. Holly\nhimself was give them things he gives ter you?\"\n\nThe boy turned sharply, a startled question in his eyes.\n\n\"What do you mean? Do you mean that--\" His face changed suddenly. His\ncheeks turned a shamed red. \"Why, he did--he did have to buy them, of\ncourse, just as father did. And I never even thought of it before!\nThen, it's yours, anyway--it belongs to you,\" he argued, turning to\nFarmer Holly, and shoving the gold nearer to his hands. \"There isn't\nenough, maybe--but 't will help!\"\n\n\"They're ten-dollar gold pieces, sir,\" spoke up Larson importantly;\n\"an' there's a hundred an' six of them. That's jest one thousand an'\nsixty dollars, as I make it.\"\n\nSimeon Holly, self-controlled man that he was, almost leaped from his\nchair.\n\n\"One thousand and sixty dollars!\" he gasped. Then, to David: \"Boy, in\nHeaven's name, who are you?\"\n\n\"I don't know--only David.\" The boy spoke wearily, with a grieved sob\nin his voice. He was very tired, a good deal perplexed, and a little\nangry. He wished, if no one wanted this gold, that he could take it\nupstairs again to the chimney cupboard; or, if they objected to that,\nthat they would at least give it to him, and let him go away now to\nthat beautiful music he was to hear, and to those kind people who were\nalways to understand what he said when he played.\n\n\"Of course,\" ventured Perry Larson diffidently, \"I ain't professin' ter\nknow any great shakes about the hand of the Lord, Mr. Holly, but it do\nstrike me that this 'ere gold comes mighty near bein'\nproverdential--fur you.\"\n\nSimeon Holly fell back in his seat. His eyes clung to the gold, but his\nlips set into rigid lines.\n\n\"That money is the boy's, Larson. It isn't mine,\" he said.\n\n\"He's give it to ye.\"\n\nSimeon Holly shook his head.\n\n\"David is nothing but a child, Perry. He doesn't realize at all what he\nis doing, nor how valuable his gift is.\"\n\n\"I know, sir, but you DID take him in, when there wouldn't nobody else\ndo it,\" argued Larson. \"An', anyhow, couldn't you make a kind of an I O\nU of it, even if he is a kid? Then, some day you could pay him back.\nMeanwhile you'd be a-keepin' him, an' a-schoolin' him; an' that's\nsomethin'.\"\n\n\"I know, I know,\" nodded Simeon Holly thoughtfully, his eyes going from\nthe gold to David's face. Then, aloud, yet as if to himself, he\nbreathed: \"Boy, boy, who was your father? How came he by all that\ngold--and he--a tramp!\"\n\nDavid drew himself suddenly erect. His eyes flashed.\n\n\"I don't know, sir. But I do know this: he didn't STEAL it!\"\n\nAcross the table Mrs. Holly drew a quick breath, but she did not\nspeak--save with her pleading eyes. Mrs. Holly seldom spoke--save with\nher eyes--when her husband was solving a knotty problem. She was\ndumfounded now that he should listen so patiently to the man,\nLarson,--though she was not more surprised than was Larson himself. For\nboth of them, however, there came at this moment a still greater\nsurprise. Simeon Holly leaned forward suddenly, the stern lines quite\ngone from his lips, and his face working with emotion as he drew David\ntoward him.\n\n\"You're a good son, boy,--a good loyal son; and--and I wish you were\nmine! I believe you. He didn't steal it, and I won't steal it, either.\nBut I will use it, since you are so good as to offer it. But it shall\nbe a loan, David, and some day, God helping me, you shall have it back.\nMeanwhile, you're my boy, David,--my boy!\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you, sir,\" rejoiced David. \"And, really, you know, being\nwanted like that is better than the start would be, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Better than--what?\"\n\nDavid shifted his position. He had not meant to say just that.\n\n\"N--nothing,\" he stammered, looking about for a means of quick escape.\n\"I--I was just talking,\" he finished. And he was immeasurably relieved\nto find that Mr. Holly did not press the matter further.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nTHE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD\n\nIn spite of the exaltation of renunciation, and in spite of the joy of\nbeing newly and especially \"wanted,\" those early September days were\nsometimes hard for David. Not until he had relinquished all hope of his\n\"start\" did he fully realize what that hope had meant to him.\n\nThere were times, to be sure, when there was nothing but rejoicing\nwithin him that he was able thus to aid the Hollys. There were other\ntimes when there was nothing but the sore heartache because of the\ngreat work out in the beautiful world that could now never be done; and\nbecause of the unlovely work at hand that must be done. To tell the\ntruth, indeed, David's entire conception of life had become suddenly a\nchaos of puzzling contradictions.\n\nTo Mr. Jack, one day, David went with his perplexities. Not that he\ntold him of the gold-pieces and of the unexpected use to which they had\nbeen put--indeed, no. David had made up his mind never, if he could\nhelp himself, to mention those gold-pieces to any one who did not\nalready know of them. They meant questions, and the questions,\nexplanations. And he had had enough of both on that particular subject.\nBut to Mr. Jack he said one day, when they were alone together:--\n\n\"Mr. Jack, how many folks have you got inside of your head?\"\n\n\"Eh--what, David?\"\n\nDavid repeated his question and attached an explanation.\n\n\"I mean, the folks that--that make you do things.\"\n\nMr. Jack laughed.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I believe some people make claims to quite a number,\nand perhaps almost every one owns to a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde.\"\n\n\"Who are they?\"\n\n\"Never mind, David. I don't think you know the gentlemen, anyhow.\nThey're only something like the little girl with a curl. One is very,\nvery good, indeed, and the other is horrid.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I know them; they're the ones that come to me,\" returned\nDavid, with a sigh. \"I've had them a lot, lately.\"\n\nMr. Jack stared.\n\n\"Oh, have you?\"\n\n\"Yes; and that's what's the trouble. How can you drive them off--the\none that is bad, I mean?\"\n\n\"Well, really,\" confessed Mr. Jack, \"I'm not sure I can tell. You\nsee--the gentlemen visit me sometimes.\"\n\n\"Oh, do they?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I'm so glad--that is, I mean,\" amended David, in answer to Mr. Jack's\nuplifted eyebrows, \"I'm glad that you understand what I'm talking\nabout. You see, I tried Perry Larson last night on it, to get him to\ntell me what to do. But he only stared and laughed. He didn't know the\nnames of 'em, anyhow, as you do, and at last he got really almost angry\nand said I made him feel so 'buggy' and 'creepy' that he wouldn't dare\nlook at himself in the glass if I kept on, for fear some one he'd never\nknown was there should jump out at him.\"\n\nMr. Jack chuckled.\n\n\"Well, I suspect, David, that Perry knew one of your gentlemen by the\nname of 'conscience,' perhaps; and I also suspect that maybe conscience\ndoes pretty nearly fill the bill, and that you've been having a bout\nwith that. Eh? Now, what is the trouble? Tell me about it.\"\n\nDavid stirred uneasily. Instead of answering, he asked another question.\n\n\"Mr. Jack, it is a beautiful world, isn't it?\"\n\nFor a moment there was no, answer; then a low voice replied:--\n\n\"Your father said it was, David.\"\n\nAgain David moved restlessly.\n\n\"Yes; but father was on the mountain. And down here--well, down here\nthere are lots of things that I don't believe he knew about.\"\n\n\"What, for instance?\"\n\n\"Why, lots of things--too many to tell. Of course there are things like\ncatching fish, and killing birds and squirrels and other things to eat,\nand plaguing cats and dogs. Father never would have called those\nbeautiful. Then there are others like little Jimmy Clark who can't\nwalk, and the man at the Marstons' who's sick, and Joe Glaspell who is\nblind. Then there are still different ones like Mr. Holly's little boy.\nPerry says he ran away years and years ago, and made his people very\nunhappy. Father wouldn't call that a beautiful world, would he? And how\ncan people like that always play in tune? And there are the Princess\nand the Pauper that you told about.\"\n\n\"Oh, the story?\"\n\n\"Yes; and people like them can't be happy and think the world is\nbeautiful, of course.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because they didn't end right. They didn't get married and live happy\never after, you know.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't think I'd worry about that, David,--at least, not about\nthe Princess. I fancy the world was very beautiful to her, all right.\nThe Pauper--well, perhaps he wasn't very happy. But, after all, David,\nyou know happiness is something inside of yourself. Perhaps half of\nthese people are happy, in their way.\"\n\n\"There! and that's another thing,\" sighed David. \"You see, I found that\nout--that it was inside of yourself--quite a while ago, and I told the\nLady of the Roses. But now I--can't make it work myself.\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Well, you see then something was going to happen--something that I\nliked; and I found that just thinking of it made it so that I didn't\nmind raking or hoeing, or anything like that; and I told the Lady of\nthe Roses. And I told her that even if it wasn't going to happen she\ncould THINK it was going to, and that that would be just the same,\nbecause 't was the thinking that made my hours sunny ones. It wasn't\nthe DOING at all. I said I knew because I hadn't DONE it yet. See?\"\n\n\"I--think so, David.\"\n\n\"Well, I've found out that it isn't the same at all; for now that I\nKNOW that this beautiful thing isn't ever going to happen to me, I can\nthink and think all day, and it doesn't do a mite of good. The sun is\njust as hot, and my back aches just as hard, and the field is just as\nbig and endless as it used to be when I had to call it that those hours\ndidn't count. Now, what is the matter?\"\n\nMr. Jack laughed, but he shook his head a little sadly.\n\n\"You're getting into too deep waters for me, David. I suspect you're\nfloundering in a sea that has upset the boats of sages since the world\nbegan. But what is it that was so nice, and that isn't going to happen?\nPerhaps I MIGHT help on that.\"\n\n\"No, you couldn't,\" frowned David; \"and there couldn't anybody, either,\nyou see, because I wouldn't go back now and LET it happen, anyhow, as\nlong as I know what I do. Why, if I did, there wouldn't be ANY hours\nthat were sunny then--not even the ones after four o'clock; I--I'd feel\nso mean! But what I don't see is just how I can fix it up with the Lady\nof the Roses.\"\n\n\"What has she to do with it?\"\n\n\"Why, at the very first, when she said she didn't have ANY sunshiny\nhours, I told her--\"\n\n\"When she said what?\" interposed Mr. Jack, coming suddenly erect in his\nchair.\n\n\"That she didn't have any hours to count, you know.\"\n\n\"To--COUNT?\"\n\n\"Yes; it was the sundial. Didn't I tell you? Yes, I know I did--about\nthe words on it--not counting any hours that weren't sunny, you know.\nAnd she said she wouldn't have ANY hours to count; that the sun never\nshone for her.\"\n\n\"Why, David,\" demurred Mr. Jack in a voice that shook a little, \"are\nyou sure? Did she say just that? You--you must be mistaken--when she\nhas--has everything to make her happy.\"\n\n\"I wasn't, because I said that same thing to her myself--afterwards.\nAnd then I told her--when I found out myself, you know--about its being\nwhat was inside of you, after all, that counted; and then is when I\nasked her if she couldn't think of something nice that was going to\nhappen to her sometime.\"\n\n\"Well, what did she say?\"\n\n\"She shook her head, and said 'No.' Then she looked away, and her eyes\ngot soft and dark like little pools in the brook where the water stops\nto rest. And she said she had hoped once that this something would\nhappen; but that it hadn't, and that it would take something more than\nthinking to bring it. And I know now what she meant, because thinking\nisn't all that counts, is it?\"\n\nMr. Jack did not answer. He had risen to his feet, and was pacing\nrestlessly up and down the veranda. Once or twice he turned his eyes\ntoward the towers of Sunnycrest, and David noticed that there was a new\nlook on his face.\n\nVery soon, however, the old tiredness came back to his eyes, and he\ndropped into his seat again, muttering \"Fool! of course it couldn't\nbe--that!\"\n\n\"Be what?\" asked David.\n\nMr. Jack started.\n\n\"Er--nothing; nothing that you would understand, David. Go on--with\nwhat you were saying.\"\n\n\"There isn't any more. It's all done. It's only that I'm wondering how\nI'm going to learn here that it's a beautiful world, so that I\ncan--tell father.\"\n\nMr. Jack roused himself. He had the air of a man who determinedly\nthrows to one side a heavy burden.\n\n\"Well, David,\" he smiled, \"as I said before, you are still out on that\nsea where there are so many little upturned boats. There might be a\ngood many ways of answering that question.\"\n\n\"Mr. Holly says,\" mused the boy, aloud, a little gloomily, \"that it\ndoesn't make any difference whether we find things beautiful or not;\nthat we're here to do something serious in the world.\"\n\n\"That is about what I should have expected of Mr. Holly\" retorted Mr.\nJack grimly. \"He acts it--and looks it. But--I don't believe you are\ngoing to tell your father just that.\"\n\n\"No, sir, I don't believe I am,\" accorded David soberly.\n\n\"I have an idea that you're going to find that answer just where your\nfather said you would--in your violin. See if you don't. Things that\naren't beautiful you'll make beautiful--because we find what we are\nlooking for, and you're looking for beautiful things. After all, boy,\nif we march straight ahead, chin up, and sing our own little song with\nall our might and main, we shan't come so far amiss from the goal, I'm\nthinking. There! that's preaching, and I didn't mean to preach;\nbut--well, to tell the truth, that was meant for myself, for--I'm\nhunting for the beautiful world, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I know,\" returned David fervently. And again Mr. Jack,\nlooking into the sympathetic, glowing dark eyes, wondered if, after\nall, David really could--know.\n\nEven yet Mr. Jack was not used to David; there were \"so many of him,\"\nhe told himself. There were the boy, the artist, and a third\npersonality so evanescent that it defied being named. The boy was\njolly, impetuous, confidential, and delightful--plainly reveling in all\nmanner of fun and frolic. The artist was nothing but a bunch of nervous\nalertness, ready to find melody and rhythm in every passing thought or\nflying cloud. The third--that baffling third that defied the\nnaming--was a dreamy, visionary, untouchable creature who floated so\nfar above one's head that one's hand could never pull him down to get a\ngood square chance to see what he did look like. All this thought Mr.\nJack as he gazed into David's luminous eyes.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nTHE UNFAMILIAR WAY\n\nIn September David entered the village school. School and David did not\nassimilate at once. Very confidently the teacher set to work to grade\nher new pupil; but she was not so confident when she found that while\nin Latin he was perilously near herself (and in French--which she was\nnot required to teach--disastrously beyond her!), in United States\nhistory he knew only the barest outlines of certain portions, and could\nnot name a single battle in any of its wars. In most studies he was far\nbeyond boys of his own age, yet at every turn she encountered these\npuzzling spots of discrepancy, which rendered grading in the ordinary\nway out of the question.\n\nDavid's methods of recitation, too, were peculiar, and somewhat\ndisconcerting. He also did not hesitate to speak aloud when he chose,\nnor to rise from his seat and move to any part of the room as the whim\nseized him. In time, of course, all this was changed; but it was\nseveral days before the boy learned so to conduct himself that he did\nnot shatter to atoms the peace and propriety of the schoolroom.\n\nOutside of school David had little work to do now, though there were\nstill left a few light tasks about the house. Home life at the Holly\nfarmhouse was the same for David, yet with a difference--the difference\nthat comes from being really wanted instead of being merely dutifully\nkept. There were other differences, too, subtle differences that did\nnot show, perhaps, but that still were there.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Holly, more than ever now, were learning to look at the\nworld through David's eyes. One day--one wonderful day--they even went\nto walk in the woods with the boy; and whenever before had Simeon Holly\nleft his work for so frivolous a thing as a walk in the woods!\n\nIt was not accomplished, however, without a struggle, as David could\nhave told. The day was a Saturday, clear, crisp, and beautiful, with a\npromise of October in the air; and David fairly tingled to be free and\naway. Mrs. Holly was baking--and the birds sang unheard outside her\npantry window. Mr. Holly was digging potatoes--and the clouds sailed\nunnoticed above his head.\n\nAll the morning David urged and begged. If for once, just this once,\nthey would leave everything and come, they would not regret it, he was\nsure. But they shook their heads and said, \"No, no, impossible!\" In the\nafternoon the pies were done and the potatoes dug, and David urged and\npleaded again. If once, only this once, they would go to walk with him\nin the woods, he would be so happy, so very happy! And to please the\nboy--they went.\n\nIt was a curious walk. Ellen Holly trod softly, with timid feet. She\nthrew hurried, frightened glances from side to side. It was plain that\nEllen Holly did not know how to play. Simeon Holly stalked at her\nelbow, stern, silent, and preoccupied. It was plain that Simeon Holly\nnot only did not know how to play, but did not even care to find out.\n\nThe boy tripped ahead and talked. He had the air of a monarch\ndisplaying his kingdom. On one side was a bit of moss worthy of the\nclosest attention; on another, a vine that carried allurement in every\ntendril. Here was a flower that was like a story for interest, and\nthere was a bush that bore a secret worth the telling. Even Simeon\nHolly glowed into a semblance of life when David had unerringly picked\nout and called by name the spruce, and fir, and pine, and larch, and\nthen, in answer to Mrs. Holly's murmured: \"But, David, where's the\ndifference? They look so much alike!\" he had said:--\n\n\"Oh, but they aren't, you know. Just see how much more pointed at the\ntop that fir is than that spruce back there; and the branches grow\nstraight out, too, like arms, and they're all smooth and tapering at\nthe ends like a pussy-cat's tail. But the spruce back there--ITS\nbranches turned down and out--didn't you notice?--and they're all bushy\nat the ends like a squirrel's tail. Oh, they're lots different! That's\na larch 'way ahead--that one with the branches all scraggly and close\ndown to the ground. I could start to climb that easy; but I couldn't\nthat pine over there. See, it's 'way up, up, before there's a place for\nyour foot! But I love pines. Up there on the mountains where I lived,\nthe pines were so tall that it seemed as if God used them sometimes to\nhold up the sky.\"\n\nAnd Simeon Holly heard, and said nothing; and that he did say\nnothing--especially nothing in answer to David's confident assertions\nconcerning celestial and terrestrial architecture--only goes to show\nhow well, indeed, the man was learning to look at the world through\nDavid's eyes.\n\nNor were these all of David's friends to whom Mr. and Mrs. Holly were\nintroduced on that memorable walk. There were the birds, and the\nsquirrels, and, in fact, everything that had life. And each one he\ngreeted joyously by name, as he would greet a friend whose home and\nhabits he knew. Here was a wonderful woodpecker, there was a beautiful\nbluejay. Ahead, that brilliant bit of color that flashed across their\npath was a tanager. Once, far up in the sky, as they crossed an open\nspace, David spied a long black streak moving southward.\n\n\"Oh, see!\" he exclaimed. \"The crows! See them?--'way up there? Wouldn't\nit be fun if we could do that, and fly hundreds and hundreds of miles,\nmaybe a thousand?\"\n\n\"Oh, David,\" remonstrated Mrs. Holly, unbelievingly.\n\n\"But they do! These look as if they'd started on their winter journey\nSouth, too; but if they have, they're early. Most of them don't go till\nOctober. They come back in March, you know. Though I've had them, on\nthe mountain, that stayed all the year with me.\"\n\n\"My! but I love to watch them go,\" murmured David, his eyes following\nthe rapidly disappearing blackline. \"Lots of birds you can't see, you\nknow, when they start for the South. They fly at night--the woodpeckers\nand orioles and cuckoos, and lots of others. They're afraid, I guess,\ndon't you? But I've seen them. I've watched them. They tell each other\nwhen they're going to start.\"\n\n\"Oh, David,\" remonstrated Mrs. Holly, again, her eyes reproving, but\nplainly enthralled.\n\n\"But they do tell each other,\" claimed the boy, with sparkling eyes.\n\"They must! For, all of a sudden, some night, you'll hear the signal,\nand then they'll begin to gather from all directions. I've seen them.\nThen, suddenly, they're all up and off to the South--not in one big\nflock, but broken up into little flocks, following one after another,\nwith such a beautiful whir of wings. Oof--OOF--OOF!--and they're gone!\nAnd I don't see them again till next year. But you've seen the\nswallows, haven't you? They go in the daytime, and they're the easiest\nto tell of any of them. They fly so swift and straight. Haven't you\nseen the swallows go?\"\n\n\"Why, I--I don't know, David,\" murmured Mrs. Holly, with a helpless\nglance at her husband stalking on ahead. \"I--I didn't know there were\nsuch things to--to know.\"\n\nThere was more, much more, that David said before the walk came to an\nend. And though, when it did end, neither Simeon Holly nor his wife\nsaid a word of its having been a pleasure or a profit, there was yet on\ntheir faces something of the peace and rest and quietness that belonged\nto the woods they had left.\n\nIt was a beautiful month--that September, and David made the most of\nit. Out of school meant out of doors for him. He saw Mr. Jack and Jill\noften. He spent much time, too, with the Lady of the Roses. She was\nstill the Lady of the ROSES to David, though in the garden now were the\npurple and scarlet and yellow of the asters, salvia, and golden glow,\ninstead of the blush and perfume of the roses.\n\nDavid was very much at home at Sunnycrest. He was welcome, he knew, to\ngo where he pleased. Even the servants were kind to him, as well as was\nthe elderly cousin whom he seldom saw, but who, he knew, lived there as\ncompany for his Lady of the Roses.\n\nPerhaps best, next to the garden, David loved the tower room; possibly\nbecause Miss Holbrook herself so often suggested that they go there.\nAnd it was there that they were when he said, dreamily, one day:--\n\n\"I like this place--up here so high, only sometimes it does make me\nthink of that Princess, because it was in a tower like this that she\nwas, you know.\"\n\n\"Fairy stories, David?\" asked Miss Holbrook lightly.\n\n\"No, not exactly, though there was a Princess in it. Mr. Jack told it.\"\nDavid's eyes were still out of the window.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Jack! And does Mr. Jack often tell you stories?\"\n\n\"No. He never told only this one--and maybe that's why I remember it\nso.\"\n\n\"Well, and what did the Princess do?\" Miss Holbrook's voice was still\nlight, still carelessly preoccupied. Her attention, plainly, was given\nto the sewing in her hand.\n\n\"She didn't do and that's what was the trouble,\" sighed I David. \"She\ndidn't wave, you know.\"\n\nThe needle in Miss Holbrook's fingers stopped short in mid-air, the\nthread half-drawn.\n\n\"Didn't--wave!\" she stammered. \"What do you--mean?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" laughed the boy, turning away from the window. \"I forgot\nthat you didn't know the story.\"\n\n\"But maybe I do--that is--what was the story?\" asked Miss Holbrook,\nwetting her lips as if they had grown suddenly very dry.\n\n\"Oh, do you? I wonder now! It wasn't 'The PRINCE and the Pauper,' but\nthe PRINCESS and the Pauper,\" cited David; \"and they used to wave\nsignals, and answer with flags. Do you know the story?\"\n\nThere was no answer. Miss Holbrook was putting away her work,\nhurriedly, and with hands that shook. David noticed that she even\npricked herself in her anxiety to get the needle tucked away. Then she\ndrew him to a low stool at her side.\n\n\"David, I want you to tell me that story, please,\" she said, \"just as\nMr. Jack told it to you. Now, be careful and put it all in, because\nI--I want to hear it,\" she finished, with an odd little laugh that\nseemed to bring two bright red spots to her cheeks.\n\n\"Oh, do you want to hear it? Then I will tell it,\" cried David\njoyfully. To David, almost as delightful as to hear a story was to tell\none himself. \"You see, first--\" And he plunged headlong into the\nintroduction.\n\nDavid knew it well--that story: and there was, perhaps, little that he\nforgot. It might not have been always told in Mr. Jack's language; but\nhis meaning was there, and very intently Miss Holbrook listened while\nDavid told of the boy and the girl, the wavings, and the flags that\nwere blue, black, and red. She laughed once,--that was at the little\njoke with the bells that the girl played,--but she did not speak until\nsometime later when David was telling of the first home-coming of the\nPrincess, and of the time when the boy on his tiny piazza watched and\nwatched in vain for a waving white signal from the tower.\n\n\"Do you mean to say,\" interposed Miss Holbrook then, almost starting to\nher feet, \"that that boy expected--\" She stopped suddenly, and fell\nback in her chair. The two red spots on her cheeks had become a rosy\nglow now, all over her face.\n\n\"Expected what?\" asked David.\n\n\"N--nothing. Go on. I was so--so interested,\" explained Miss Holbrook\nfaintly. \"Go on.\"\n\nAnd David did go on; nor did the story lose by his telling. It gained,\nindeed, something, for now it had woven through it the very strong\nsympathy of a boy who loved the Pauper for his sorrow and hated the\nPrincess for causing that sorrow.\n\n\"And so,\" he concluded mournfully, \"you see it isn't a very nice story,\nafter all, for it didn't end well a bit. They ought to have got married\nand lived happy ever after. But they didn't.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook drew in her breath a little uncertainly, and put her hand\nto her throat. Her face now, instead of being red, was very white.\n\n\"But, David,\" she faltered, after a moment, \"perhaps\nhe--the--Pauper--did not--not love the Princess any longer.\"\n\n\"Mr. Jack said that he did.\"\n\nThe white face went suddenly pink again.\n\n\"Then, why didn't he go to her and--and--tell her?\"\n\nDavid lifted his chin. With all his dignity he answered, and his words\nand accent were Mr. Jack's.\n\n\"Paupers don't go to Princesses, and say 'I love you.'\"\n\n\"But perhaps if they did--that is--if--\" Miss Holbrook bit her lips and\ndid not finish her sentence. She did not, indeed, say anything more for\na long time. But she had not forgotten the story. David knew that,\nbecause later she began to question him carefully about many little\npoints--points that he was very sure he had already made quite plain.\nShe talked about it, indeed, until he wondered if perhaps she were\ngoing to tell it to some one else sometime. He asked her if she were;\nbut she only shook her head. And after that she did not question him\nany more. And a little later David went home.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nHEAVY HEARTS\n\nFor a week David had not been near the House that Jack Built, and that,\ntoo, when Jill had been confined within doors for several days with a\ncold. Jill, indeed, was inclined to be grieved at this apparent lack of\ninterest on the part of her favorite playfellow; but upon her return\nfrom her first day of school, after her recovery, she met her brother\nwith startled eyes.\n\n\"Jack, it hasn't been David's fault at all,\" she cried remorsefully.\n\"He's sick.\"\n\n\"Sick!\"\n\n\"Yes; awfully sick. They've had to send away for doctors and\neverything.\"\n\n\"Why, Jill, are you sure? Where did you hear this?\"\n\n\"At school to-day. Every one was talking about it.\"\n\n\"But what is the matter?\"\n\n\"Fever--some sort. Some say it's typhoid, and some scarlet, and some\nsay another kind that I can't remember; but everybody says he's awfully\nsick. He got it down to Glaspell's, some say,--and some say he didn't.\nBut, anyhow, Betty Glaspell has been sick with something, and they\nhaven't let folks in there this week,\" finished Jill, her eyes big with\nterror.\n\n\"The Glaspells? But what was David doing down there?\"\n\n\"Why, you know,--he told us once,--teaching Joe to play. He's been\nthere lots. Joe is blind, you know, and can't see, but he just loves\nmusic, and was crazy over David's violin; so David took down his other\none--the one that was his father's, you know--and showed him how to\npick out little tunes, just to take up his time so he wouldn't mind so\nmuch that he couldn't see. Now, Jack, wasn't that just like David?\nJack, I can't have anything happen to David!\"\n\n\"No, dear, no; of course not! I'm afraid we can't any of us, for that\nmatter,\" sighed Jack, his forehead drawn into anxious lines. \"I'll go\ndown to the Hollys', Jill, the first thing tomorrow morning, and see\nhow he is and if there's anything we can do. Meanwhile, don't take it\ntoo much to heart, dear. It may not be half so bad as you think.\nSchool-children always get things like that exaggerated, you must\nremember,\" he finished, speaking with a lightness that he did not feel.\n\nTo himself the man owned that he was troubled, seriously troubled. He\nhad to admit that Jill's story bore the earmarks of truth; and\noverwhelmingly he realized now just how big a place this somewhat\npuzzling small boy had come to fill in his own heart. He did not need\nJill's anxious \"Now, hurry, Jack,\" the next morning to start him off in\nall haste for the Holly farmhouse. A dozen rods from the driveway he\nmet Perry Larson and stopped him abruptly.\n\n\"Good morning, Larson; I hope this isn't true--what I hear--that David\nis very ill.\"\n\nLarson pulled off his hat and with his free hand sought the one\nparticular spot on his head to which he always appealed when he was\nvery much troubled.\n\n\"Well, yes, sir, I'm afraid 't is, Mr. Jack--er--Mr. Gurnsey, I mean.\nHe is turrible sick, poor little chap, an' it's too bad--that's what it\nis--too bad!\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry! I hoped the report was exaggerated. I came down to see\nif--if there wasn't something I could do.\"\n\n\"Well, 'course you can ask--there ain't no law ag'in' that; an' ye\nneedn't be afraid, neither. The report has got 'round that it's\nketchin'--what he's got, and that he got it down to the Glaspells'; but\n't ain't so. The doctor says he didn't ketch nothin', an' he can't give\nnothin'. It's his head an' brain that ain't right, an' he's got a\nmighty bad fever. He's been kind of flighty an' nervous, anyhow, lately.\n\n\"As I was sayin', 'course you can ask, but I'm thinkin' there won't be\nnothin' you can do ter help. Ev'rythin' that can be done is bein' done.\nIn fact, there ain't much of anythin' else that is bein' done down\nthere jest now but, tendin' ter him. They've got one o' them 'ere\nedyercated nurses from the Junction--what wears caps, ye know, an'\nmakes yer feel as if they knew it all, an' you didn't know nothin'. An'\nthen there's Mr. an' Mis' Holly besides. If they had THEIR way, there\nwouldn't neither of, em let him out o' their sight fur a minute,\nthey're that cut up about it.\"\n\n\"I fancy they think a good deal of the boy--as we all do,\" murmured the\nyounger man, a little unsteadily.\n\nLarson winkled his forehead in deep thought.\n\n\"Yes; an' that's what beats me,\" he answered slowly; \"'bout HIM,--Mr.\nHolly, I mean. 'Course we'd 'a' expected it of HER--losin' her own boy\nas she did, an' bein' jest naturally so sweet an' lovin'-hearted. But\nHIM--that's diff'rent. Now, you know jest as well as I do what Mr.\nHolly is--every one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin' sland'rous. He's a\ngood man--a powerful good man; an' there ain't a squarer man goin' ter\nwork fur. But the fact is, he was made up wrong side out, an' the seams\nhas always showed bad--turrible bad, with ravelin's all stickin' out\nevery which way ter ketch an' pull. But, gosh! I'm blamed if that, ere\nboy ain't got him so smoothed down, you wouldn't know, scursely, that\nhe had a seam on him, sometimes; though how he's done it beats me. Now,\nthere's Mis' Holly--she's tried ter smooth 'em, I'll warrant, lots of\ntimes. But I'm free ter say she hain't never so much as clipped a\nravelin' in all them forty years they've lived tergether. Fact is, it's\nworked the other way with her. All that HER rubbin' up ag'in' them\nseams has amounted to is ter git herself so smoothed down that she\ndon't never dare ter say her soul's her own, most generally,--anyhow,\nnot if he happens ter intermate it belongs ter anybody else!\"\n\nJack Gurnsey suddenly choked over a cough.\n\n\"I wish I could--do something,\" he murmured uncertainly.\n\n\"'T ain't likely ye can--not so long as Mr. an' Mis' Holly is on their\ntwo feet. Why, there ain't nothin' they won't do, an' you'll believe\nit, maybe, when I tell you that yesterday Mr. Holly, he tramped all\nthrough Sawyer's woods in the rain, jest ter find a little bit of moss\nthat the boy was callin' for. Think o' that, will ye? Simeon Holly\nhuntin' moss! An' he got it, too, an' brung it home, an' they say it\ncut him up somethin' turrible when the boy jest turned away, and didn't\ntake no notice. You understand, 'course, sir, the little chap ain't\nright in his head, an' so half the time he don't know what he says.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry, sorry!\" exclaimed Gurnsey, as he turned away, and\nhurried toward the farmhouse.\n\nMrs. Holly herself answered his low knock. She looked worn and pale.\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" she said gratefully, in reply to his offer of\nassistance, \"but there isn't anything you can do, Mr. Gurnsey. We're\nhaving everything done that can be, and every one is very kind. We have\na very good nurse, and Dr. Kennedy has had consultation with Dr. Benson\nfrom the Junction. They are doing all in their power, of course, but\nthey say that--that it's going to be the nursing that will count now.\"\n\n\"Then I don't fear for him, surely\" declared the man, with fervor.\n\n\"I know, but--well, he shall have the very best possible--of that.\"\n\n\"I know he will; but isn't there anything--anything that I can do?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"No. Of course, if he gets better--\" She hesitated; then lifted her\nchin a little higher; \"WHEN he gets better,\" she corrected with\ncourageous emphasis, \"he will want to see you.\"\n\n\"And he shall see me,\" asserted Gurnsey. \"And he will be better, Mrs.\nHolly,--I'm sure he will.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, of course, only--oh, Mr. Jack, he's so sick--so very sick!\nThe doctor says he's a peculiarly sensitive nature, and that he thinks\nsomething's been troubling him lately.\" Her voice broke.\n\n\"Poor little chap!\" Mr. Jack's voice, too, was husky.\n\nShe looked up with swift gratefulness for his sympathy.\n\n\"And you loved him, too, I know\" she choked. \"He talks of you\noften--very often.\"\n\n\"Indeed I love him! Who could help it?\"\n\n\"There couldn't anybody, Mr. Jack,--and that's just it. Now, since he's\nbeen sick, we've wondered more than ever who he is. You see, I can't\nhelp thinking that somewhere he's got friends who ought to know about\nhim--now.\"\n\n\"Yes, I see,\" nodded the man.\n\n\"He isn't an ordinary boy, Mr. Jack. He's been trained in lots of\nways--about his manners, and at the table, and all that. And lots of\nthings his father has told him are beautiful, just beautiful! He isn't\na tramp. He never was one. And there's his playing. YOU know how he can\nplay.\"\n\n\"Indeed I do! You must miss his playing, too.\"\n\n\"I do; he talks of that, also,\" she hurried on, working her fingers\nnervously together; \"but oftenest he--he speaks of singing, and I can't\nquite understand that, for he didn't ever sing, you know.\"\n\n\"Singing? What does he say?\" The man asked the question because he saw\nthat it was affording the overwrought little woman real relief to free\nher mind; but at the first words of her reply he became suddenly alert.\n\n\"It's 'his song,' as he calls it, that he talks about, always. It isn't\nmuch--what he says--but I noticed it because he always says the same\nthing, like this: I'll just hold up my chin and march straight on and\non, and I'll sing it with all my might and main.' And when I ask him\nwhat he's going to sing, he always says, 'My song--my song,' just like\nthat. Do you think, Mr. Jack, he did have--a song?\"\n\nFor a moment the man did not answer. Something in his throat tightened,\nand held the words. Then, in a low voice he managed to stammer:--\n\n\"I think he did, Mrs. Holly, and--I think he sang it, too.\" The next\nmoment, with a quick lifting of his hat and a murmured \"I'll call again\nsoon,\" he turned and walked swiftly down the driveway.\n\nSo very swiftly, indeed, was Mr. Jack walking, and so self-absorbed was\nhe, that he did not see the carriage until it was almost upon him; then\nhe stepped aside to let it pass. What he saw as he gravely raised his\nhat was a handsome span of black horses, a liveried coachman, and a\npair of startled eyes looking straight into his. What he did not see\nwas the quick gesture with which Miss Holbrook almost ordered her\ncarriage stopped the minute it had passed him by.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nAS PERRY SAW IT\n\nOne by one the days passed, and there came from the anxious watchers at\nDavid's bedside only the words, \"There's very little change.\" Often\nJack Gurnsey went to the farmhouse to inquire for the boy. Often, too,\nhe saw Perry Larson; and Perry was never loath to talk of David. It was\nfrom Perry, indeed, that Gurnsey began to learn some things of David\nthat he had never known before.\n\n\"It does beat all,\" Perry Larson said to him one day, \"how many folks\nasks me how that boy is--folks that you'd never think knew him, anyhow,\nter say nothin' of carin' whether he lived or died. Now, there's old\nMis' Somers, fur instance. YOU know what she is--sour as a lemon an'\npuckery as a chokecherry. Well, if she didn't give me yesterday a great\nbo-kay o' posies she'd growed herself, an' said they was fur him--that\nthey berlonged ter him, anyhow.\n\n\"'Course, I didn't exactly sense what she meant by that, so I asked her\nstraight out; an' it seems that somehow, when the boy first come, he\nstruck her place one day an' spied a great big red rose on one of her\nbushes. It seems he had his fiddle, an' he, played it,--that rose\na-growin' (you know his way!), an' she heard an' spoke up pretty sharp\nan' asked him what in time he was doin'. Well, most kids would 'a'\nrun,--knowin' her temper as they does,--but not much David. He stands\nup as pert as ye please, an' tells her how happy that red rose must be\nter make all that dreary garden look so pretty; an' then he goes on,\nmerry as a lark, a-playin' down the hill.\n\n\"Well, Mis' Somers owned up ter me that she was pretty mad at the time,\n'cause her garden did look like tunket, an' she knew it. She said she\nhadn't cared ter do a thing with it since her Bessie died that thought\nso much of it. But after what David had said, even mad as she was, the\nthing kind o' got on her nerves, an' she couldn't see a thing, day or\nnight, but that red rose a-growin' there so pert an' courageous-like,\nuntil at last, jest ter quiet herself, she fairly had ter set to an'\nslick that garden up! She said she raked an' weeded, an' fixed up all\nthe plants there was, in good shape, an' then she sent down to the\nJunction fur some all growed in pots, 'cause 't was too late ter plant\nseeds. An, now it's doin' beautiful, so she jest could n't help sendin'\nthem posies ter David. When I told Mis' Holly, she said she was glad it\nhappened, 'cause what Mis' Somers needed was somethin' ter git her out\nof herself--an' I'm free ter say she did look better-natured, an' no\nmistake,--kind o' like a chokecherry in blossom, ye might say.\"\n\n\"An' then there's the Widder Glaspell,\" continued Perry, after a pause.\n\"'Course, any one would expect she'd feel bad, seein' as how good David\nwas ter her boy--teachin' him ter play, ye know. But Mis' Glaspell says\nJoe jest does take on somethin' turrible, an' he won't tech the fiddle,\nthough he was plum carried away with it when David was well an'\nteachin' of him. An' there's the Clark kid. He's lame, ye know, an' he\nthought the world an' all of David's playin'.\n\n\"'Course, there's you an' Miss Holbrook, always askin' an' sendin'\nthings--but that ain't so strange, 'cause you was 'specially his\nfriends. But it's them others what beats me. Why, some days it's 'most\nev'ry soul I meet, jest askin' how he is, an' sayin' they hopes he'll\ngit well. Sometimes it's kids that he's played to, an' I'll be\ntriggered if one of 'em one day didn't have no excuse to offer except\nthat David had fit him--'bout a cat, or somethin'--an' that ever since\nthen he'd thought a heap of him--though he guessed David didn't know\nit. Listen ter that, will ye!\n\n\"An' once a woman held me up, an' took on turrible, but all I could git\nfrom her was that he'd sat on her doorstep an' played ter her baby once\nor twice;--as if that was anythin'! But one of the derndest funny ones\nwas the woman who said she could wash her dishes a sight easier after\nshe'd a-seen him go by playin'. There was Bill Dowd, too. You know he\nreally HAS got a screw loose in his head somewheres, an' there ain't\nany one but what says he's the town fool, all right. Well, what do ye\nthink HE said?\"\n\nMr. Jack shook his head.\n\n\"Well, he said he did hope as how nothin' would happen ter that boy\ncause he did so like ter see him smile, an' that he always did smile\nevery time he met him! There, what do ye think o' that?\"\n\n\"Well, I think, Perry,\" returned Mr. Jack soberly, \"that Bill Dowd\nwasn't playing the fool, when he said that, quite so much as he\nsometimes is, perhaps.\"\n\n\"Hm-m, maybe not,\" murmured Perry Larson perplexedly. \"Still, I'm free\nter say I do think 't was kind o' queer.\" He paused, then slapped his\nknee suddenly. \"Say, did I tell ye about Streeter--Old Bill Streeter\nan' the pear tree?\"\n\nAgain Mr. Jack shook his head.\n\n\"Well, then, I'm goin' to,\" declared the other, with gleeful emphasis.\n\"An', say, I don't believe even YOU can explain this--I don't! Well,\nyou know Streeter--ev'ry one does, so I ain't sayin' nothin'\nsland'rous. He was cut on a bias, an' that bias runs ter money every\ntime. You know as well as I do that he won't lift his finger unless\nthere's a dollar stickin' to it, an' that he hain't no use fur anythin'\nnor anybody unless there's money in it for him. I'm blamed if I don't\nthink that if he ever gits ter heaven, he'll pluck his own wings an'\nsell the feathers fur what they'll bring.\"\n\n\"Oh, Perry!\" remonstrated Mr. Jack, in a half-stifled voice.\n\nPerry Larson only grinned and went on imperturbably.\n\n\"Well, seein' as we both understand what he is, I'll tell ye what he\nDONE. He called me up ter his fence one day, big as life, an' says he,\n'How's the boy?' An' you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather.\nStreeter--a-askin' how a boy was that was sick! An' he seemed ter care,\ntoo. I hain't seen him look so longfaced since--since he was paid up on\na sartin note I knows of, jest as he was smackin' his lips over a nice\nfat farm that was comin' to him!\n\n\"Well, I was that plum puzzled that I meant ter find out why Streeter\nwas takin' sech notice, if I hung fur it. So I set to on a little\ndetective work of my own, knowin', of course, that 't wa'n't no use\naskin' of him himself. Well, an' what do you s'pose I found out? If\nthat little scamp of a boy hadn't even got round him--Streeter, the\nskinflint! He had--an' he went there often, the neighbors said; an'\nStreeter doted on him. They declared that actually he give him a cent\nonce--though THAT part I ain't swallerin' yet.\n\n\"They said--the neighbors did--that it all started from the pear\ntree--that big one ter the left of his house. Maybe you remember it.\nWell, anyhow, it seems that it's old, an' through bearin' any fruit,\nthough it still blossoms fit ter kill, every year, only a little late\n'most always, an' the blossoms stay on longer'n common, as if they knew\nthere wa'n't nothin' doin' later. Well, old Streeter said it had got\nter come down. I reckon he suspected it of swipin' some of the\nsunshine, or maybe a little rain that belonged ter the tree t'other\nside of the road what did bear fruit an' was worth somethin'! Anyhow,\nhe got his man an' his axe, an' was plum ready ter start in when he\nsees David an' David sees him.\n\n\"'T was when the boy first come. He'd gone ter walk an' had struck this\npear tree, all in bloom,--an' 'course, YOU know how the boy would\nact--a pear tree, bloomin', is a likely sight, I'll own. He danced and\nlaughed and clapped his hands,--he didn't have his fiddle with\nhim,--an' carried on like all possessed. Then he sees the man with the\naxe, an' Streeter an' Streeter sees him.\n\n\"They said it was rich then--Bill Warner heard it all from t'other side\nof the fence. He said that David, when he found out what was goin' ter\nhappen, went clean crazy, an' rampaged on at such a rate that old\nStreeter couldn't do nothin' but stand an' stare, until he finally\nmanaged ter growl out: 'But I tell ye, boy, the tree ain't no use no\nmore!'\n\n\"Bill says the boy flew all to pieces then. 'No use--no use!' he cries;\n'such a perfectly beautiful thing as that no use! Why, it don't have\nter be any use when it's so pretty. It's jest ter look at an' love, an'\nbe happy with!' Fancy sayin' that ter old Streeter! I'd like ter seen\nhis face. But Bill says that wa'n't half what the boy said. He declared\nthat 't was God's present, anyhow, that trees was; an' that the things\nHe give us ter look at was jest as much use as the things He give us\nter eat; an' that the stars an' the sunsets an' the snowflakes an' the\nlittle white cloud-boats, an' I don't know what-all, was jest as\nimportant in the Orchestra of Life as turnips an' squashes. An' then,\nBilly says, he ended by jest flingin' himself on ter Streeter an'\nbeggin' him ter wait till he could go back an' git his fiddle so he\ncould tell him what a beautiful thing that tree was.\n\n\"Well, if you'll believe it, old Streeter was so plum befuzzled he sent\nthe man an' the axe away--an' that tree's a-livin' ter-day--'t is!\" he\nfinished; then, with a sudden gloom on his face, Larson added, huskily:\n\"An' I only hope I'll be sayin' the same thing of that boy--come next\nmonth at this time!\"\n\n\"We'll hope you will,\" sighed the other fervently.\n\nAnd so one by one the days passed, while the whole town waited and\nwhile in the great airy \"parlor bedroom\" of the Holly farmhouse one\nsmall boy fought his battle for life. Then came the blackest day and\nnight of all when the town could only wait and watch--it had lost its\nhope; when the doctors shook their heads and refused to meet Mrs.\nHolly's eyes; when the pulse in the slim wrist outside the coverlet\nplayed hide-and-seek with the cool, persistent fingers that sought so\nearnestly for it; when Perry Larson sat for uncounted sleepless hours\nby the kitchen stove, and fearfully listened for a step crossing the\nhallway; when Mr. Jack on his porch, and Miss Holbrook in her tower\nwidow, went with David down into the dark valley, and came so near the\nrushing river that life, with its petty prides and prejudices, could\nnever seem quite the same to them again.\n\nThen, after that blackest day and night, came the dawn--as the dawns do\ncome after the blackest of days and nights. In the slender wrist\noutside the coverlet the pulse gained and steadied. On the forehead\nbeneath the nurse's fingers, a moisture came. The doctors nodded their\nheads now, and looked every one straight in the eye. \"He will live,\"\nthey said. \"The crisis is passed.\" Out by the kitchen stove Perry\nLarson heard the step cross the hall and sprang upright; but at the\nfirst glimpse of Mrs. Holly's tear-wet, yet radiant face, he collapsed\nlimply.\n\n\"Gosh!\" he muttered. \"Say, do you know, I didn't s'pose I did care so\nmuch! I reckon I'll go an' tell Mr. Jack. He'll want ter hear.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nPUZZLES\n\nDavid's convalescence was picturesque, in a way. As soon as he was\nable, like a king he sat upon his throne and received his subjects; and\na very gracious king he was, indeed. His room overflowed with flowers\nand fruit, and his bed quite groaned with the toys and books and games\nbrought for his diversion, each one of which he hailed with delight,\nfrom Miss Holbrook's sumptuously bound \"Waverley Novels\" to little\ncrippled Jimmy Clark's bag of marbles.\n\nOnly two things puzzled David: one was why everybody was so good to\nhim; and the other was why he never could have the pleasure of both Mr.\nJack's and Miss Holbrook's company at the same time.\n\nDavid discovered this last curious circumstance concerning Mr. Jack and\nMiss Holbrook very early in his convalescence. It was on the second\nafternoon that Mr. Jack had been admitted to the sick-room. David had\nbeen hearing all the latest news of Jill and Joe, when suddenly he\nnoticed an odd change come to his visitor's face.\n\nThe windows of the Holly \"parlor bedroom\" commanded a fine view of the\nroad, and it was toward one of these windows that Mr. Jack's eyes were\ndirected. David, sitting up in bed, saw then that down the road was\napproaching very swiftly a handsome span of black horses and an open\ncarriage which he had come to recognize as belonging to Miss Holbrook.\nHe watched it eagerly now till he saw the horses turn in at the Holly\ndriveway. Then he gave a low cry of delight.\n\n\"It's my Lady of the Roses! She's coming to see me. Look! Oh, I'm so\nglad! Now you'll see her, and just KNOW how lovely she is. Why, Mr.\nJack, you aren't going NOW!\" he broke off in manifest disappointment,\nas Mr. Jack leaped to his feet.\n\n\"I think I'll have to, if you don't mind, David,\" returned the man, an\noddly nervous haste in his manner. \"And YOU won't mind, now that you'll\nhave Miss Holbrook. I want to speak to Larson. I saw him in the field\nout there a minute ago. And I guess I'll slip right through this window\nhere, too, David. I don't want to lose him; and I can catch him quicker\nthis way than any other,\" he finished, throwing up the sash.\n\n\"Oh, but Mr. Jack, please just wait a minute,\" begged David. \"I wanted\nyou to see my Lady of the Roses, and--\" But Mr. Jack was already on the\nground outside the low window, and the next minute, with a merry nod\nand smile, he had pulled the sash down after him and was hurrying away.\n\nAlmost at once, then, Miss Holbrook appeared at the bedroom door.\n\n\"Mrs. Holly said I was to walk right in, David, so here I am,\" she\nbegan, in a cheery voice. \"Oh, you're looking lots better than when I\nsaw you Monday, young man!\"\n\n\"I am better,\" caroled David; \"and to-day I'm 'specially better,\nbecause Mr. Jack has been here.\"\n\n\"Oh, has Mr. Jack been to see you to-day?\" There was an indefinable\nchange in Miss Holbrook's voice.\n\n\"Yes, right now. Why, he was here when you were driving into the yard.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook gave a perceptible start and looked about her a little\nwildly.\n\n\"Here when--But I didn't meet him anywhere--in the hall.\"\n\n\"He didn't go through the hall,\" laughed David gleefully. \"He went\nright through that window there.\"\n\n\"The window!\" An angry flush mounted to Miss Holbrook's forehead.\n\"Indeed, did he have to resort to that to escape--\" She bit her lip and\nstopped abruptly.\n\nDavid's eyes widened a little.\n\n\"Escape? Oh, HE wasn't the one that was escaping. It was Perry. Mr.\nJack was afraid he'd lose him. He saw him out the window there, right\nafter he'd seen you, and he said he wanted to speak to him and he was\nafraid he'd get away. So he jumped right through that window there.\nSee?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I--see,\" murmured Miss Holbrook, in a voice David thought was\na little queer.\n\n\"I wanted him to stay,\" frowned David uncertainly. \"I wanted him to see\nyou.\"\n\n\"Dear me, David, I hope you didn't tell him so.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I did. But he couldn't stay, even then. You see, he wanted to\ncatch Perry Larson.\"\n\n\"I've no doubt of it,\" retorted Miss Holbrook, with so much emphasis\nthat David again looked at her with a slightly disturbed frown.\n\n\"But he'll come again soon, I'm sure, and then maybe you'll be here,\ntoo. I do so want him to see you, Lady of the Roses!\"\n\n\"Nonsense, David!\" laughed Miss Holbrook a little nervously. \"Mr.--Mr.\nGurnsey doesn't want to see me. He's seen me dozens of times.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, he told me he'd seen you long ago,\" nodded David gravely;\n\"but he didn't act as if he remembered it much.\"\n\n\"Didn't he, indeed!\" laughed Miss Holbrook, again flushing a little.\n\"Well, I'm sure, dear, we wouldn't want to tax the poor gentleman's\nmemory too much, you know. Come, suppose you see what I've brought\nyou,\" she finished gayly.\n\n\"Oh, what is it?\" cried David, as, under Miss Holbrook's swift fingers,\nthe wrappings fell away and disclosed a box which, upon being opened,\nwas found to be filled with quantities of oddly shaped bits of pictured\nwood--a jumble of confusion.\n\n\"It's a jig-saw puzzle, David. All these little pieces fitted together\nmake a picture, you see. I tried last night and I could n't do it. I\nbrought it down to see if you could.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you! I'd love to,\" rejoiced the boy. And in the fascination\nof the marvel of finding one fantastic bit that fitted another, David\napparently forgot all about Mr. Jack--which seemed not unpleasing to\nhis Lady of the Roses.\n\nIt was not until nearly a week later that David had his wish of seeing\nhis Mr. Jack and his Lady of the Roses meet at his bedside. It was the\nday Miss Holbrook brought to him the wonderful set of handsomely bound\n\"Waverley Novels.\" He was still glorying in his new possession, in\nfact, when Mr. Jack appeared suddenly in the doorway.\n\n\"Hullo my boy, I just--Oh, I beg your pardon. I supposed you\nwere--alone,\" he stammered, looking very red indeed.\n\n\"He is--that is, he will be, soon--except for you, Mr. Gurnsey,\" smiled\nMiss Holbrook, very brightly. She was already on her feet.\n\n\"No, no, I beg of you,\" stammered Mr. Jack, growing still more red.\n\"Don't let me drive--that is, I mean, don't go, please. I didn't know.\nI had no warning--I didn't see--Your carriage was not at the door\nto-day.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook's eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch.\n\n\"I sent it home. I am planning to walk back. I have several calls to\nmake on the way; and it's high time I was starting. Good-bye, David.\"\n\n\"But, Lady, of the Roses, please, please, don't go,\" besought David,\nwho had been looking from one to the other in worried dismay. \"Why,\nyou've just come!\"\n\nBut neither coaxing nor argument availed; and before David really knew\njust what had happened, he found himself alone with Mr. Jack.\n\nEven then disappointment was piled on disappointment, for Mr. Jack's\nvisit was not the unalloyed happiness it usually was. Mr. Jack himself\nwas almost cross at first, and then he was silent and restless, moving\njerkily about the room in a way that disturbed David very much.\n\nMr. Jack had brought with him a book; but even that only made matters\nworse, for when he saw the beautifully bound volumes that Miss Holbrook\nhad just left, he frowned, and told David that he guessed he did not\nneed his gift at all, with all those other fine books. And David could\nnot seem to make him understand that the one book from him was just\nexactly as dear as were the whole set of books that his Lady of the\nRoses brought.\n\nCertainly it was not a satisfactory visit at all, and for the first\ntime David was almost glad to have Mr. Jack go and leave him with his\nbooks. The BOOKS, David told himself, he could understand; Mr. Jack he\ncould not--to-day.\n\nSeveral times after this David's Lady of the Roses and Mr. Jack\nhappened to call at the same hour; but never could David persuade these\ntwo friends of his to stay together. Always, if one came and the other\nwas there, the other went away, in spite of David's protestations that\ntwo people did not tire him at all and his assertions that he often\nentertained as many as that at once. Tractable as they were in all\nother ways, anxious as they seemed to please him, on this one point\nthey were obdurate: never would they stay together.\n\nThey were not angry with each other--David was sure of that, for they\nwere always very especially polite, and rose, and stood, and bowed in a\nmost delightful fashion. Still, he sometimes thought that they did not\nquite like each other, for always, after the one went away, the other,\nleft behind, was silent and almost stern--if it was Mr. Jack; and\nflushed-faced and nervous--if it was Miss Holbrook. But why this was so\nDavid could not understand.\n\nThe span of handsome black horses came very frequently to the Holly\nfarmhouse now, and as time passed they often bore away behind them a\nwhite-faced but happy-eyed boy on the seat beside Miss Holbrook.\n\n\"My, but I don't see how every one can be so good to me!\" exclaimed the\nboy, one day, to his Lady of the Roses.\n\n\"Oh, that's easy, David,\" she smiled. \"The only trouble is to find out\nwhat you want--you ask for so little.\"\n\n\"But I don't need to ask--you do it all beforehand,\" asserted the boy,\n\"you and Mr. Jack, and everybody.\"\n\n\"Really? That's good.\" For a brief moment Miss Holbrook hesitated;\nthen, as if casually, she asked: \"And he tells you stories, too, I\nsuppose,--this Mr. Jack,--just as he used to, doesn't he?\"\n\n\"Well, he never did tell me but one, you know, before; but he's told me\nmore now, since I've been sick.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I remember, and that one was 'The Princess and the Pauper,'\nwasn't it? Well, has he told you any more--like--that?\"\n\nThe boy shook his head with decision.\n\n\"No, he doesn't tell me any more like that, and--and I don't want him\nto, either.\"\n\nMiss Holbrook laughed a little oddly.\n\n\"Why, David, what is the matter with that?\" she queried.\n\n\"The ending; it wasn't nice, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I--I remember.\"\n\n\"I've asked him to change it,\" went on David, in a grieved voice. \"I\nasked him just the other day, but he wouldn't.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he--he didn't want to.\" Miss Holbrook spoke very quickly, but\nso low that David barely heard the words.\n\n\"Didn't want to? Oh, yes, he did! He looked awful sober, and as if he\nreally cared, you know. And he said he'd give all he had in the world\nif he really could change it, but he couldn't.\"\n\n\"Did he say--just that?\" Miss Holbrook was leaning forward a little\nbreathlessly now.\n\n\"Yes--just that; and that's the part I couldn't understand,\" commented\nDavid. \"For I don't see why a story--just a story made up out of\nsomebody's head--can't be changed any way you want it. And I told him\nso.\"\n\n\"Well, and what did he say to that?\"\n\n\"He didn't say anything for a minute, and I had to ask him again. Then\nhe sat up suddenly, just as if he'd been asleep, you know, and said,\n'Eh, what, David?' And then I told him again what I'd said. This time\nhe shook his head, and smiled that kind of a smile that isn't really a\nsmile, you know, and said something about a real, true-to-life story's\nnever having but one ending, and that was a logical ending. Lady of the\nRoses, what is a logical ending?\"\n\nThe Lady of the Roses laughed unexpectedly. The two little red spots,\nthat David always loved to see, flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes\nshowed a sudden sparkle. When she answered, her words came\ndisconnectedly, with little laughing breaths between.\n\n\"Well, David, I--I'm not sure I can--tell you. But perhaps I--can find\nout. This much, however, I am sure of: Mr. Jack's logical ending\nwouldn't be--mine!\"\n\nWhat she meant David did not know; nor would she tell him when he\nasked; but a few days later she sent for him, and very gladly\nDavid--able now to go where he pleased--obeyed the summons.\n\nIt was November, and the garden was bleak and cold; but in the library\na bright fire danced on the hearth, and before this Miss Holbrook drew\nup two low chairs.\n\nShe looked particularly pretty, David thought. The rich red of her\ndress had apparently brought out an answering red in her cheeks. Her\neyes were very bright and her lips smiled; yet she seemed oddly nervous\nand restless. She sewed a little, with a bit of yellow silk on\nwhite--but not for long. She knitted with two long ivory needles\nflashing in and out of a silky mesh of blue--but this, too, she soon\nceased doing. On a low stand at David's side she had placed books and\npictures, and for a time she talked of those. Then very abruptly she\nasked:--\n\n\"David, when will you see--Mr. Jack again--do you suppose?\"\n\n\"Tomorrow. I'm going up to the House that Jack Built to tea, and I'm to\nstay all night. It's Halloween--that is, it isn't really Halloween,\nbecause it's too late. I lost that, being sick, you know. So we're\ngoing to pretend, and Mr. Jack is going to show me what it is like.\nThat is what Mr. Jack and Jill always do; when something ails the real\nthing, they just pretend with the make-believe one. He's planned lots\nof things for Jill and me to do; with nuts and apples and candles, you\nknow. It's to-morrow night, so I'll see him then.\"\n\n\"To-morrow? So--so soon?\" faltered Miss Holbrook. And to David, gazing\nat her with wondering eyes, it seemed for a moment almost as if she\nwere looking about for a place to which she might run and hide. Then\ndeterminedly, as if she were taking hold of something with both hands,\nshe leaned forward, looked David squarely in the eyes, and began to\ntalk hurriedly, yet very distinctly.\n\n\"David, listen. I've something I want you to say to Mr. Jack, and I\nwant you to be sure and get it just right. It's about the--the story,\n'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know. You can remember, I think, for\nyou remembered that so well. Will you say it to him--what I'm going to\ntell you--just as I say it?\"\n\n\"Why, of course I will!\" David's promise was unhesitating, though his\neyes were still puzzled.\n\n\"It's about the--the ending,\" stammered Miss Holbrook. \"That is, it\nmay--it may have something to do with the ending--perhaps,\" she\nfinished lamely. And again David noticed that odd shifting of Miss\nHolbrook's gaze as if she were searching for some means of escape.\nThen, as before, he saw her chin lift determinedly, as she began to\ntalk faster than ever.\n\n\"Now, listen,\" she admonished him, earnestly.\n\nAnd David listened.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nA STORY REMODELED\n\nThe pretended Halloween was a great success. So very excited, indeed,\ndid David become over the swinging apples and popping nuts that he\nquite forgot to tell Mr. Jack what the Lady of the Roses had said until\nJill had gone up to bed and he himself was about to take from Mr.\nJack's hand the little lighted lamp.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Jack, I forgot,\" he cried then. \"There was something I was\ngoing to tell you.\"\n\n\"Never mind to-night, David; it's so late. Suppose we leave it until\nto-morrow,\" suggested Mr. Jack, still with the lamp extended in his\nhand.\n\n\"But I promised the Lady of the Roses that I'd say it to-night,\"\ndemurred the boy, in a troubled voice.\n\nThe man drew his lamp halfway back suddenly.\n\n\"The Lady of the Roses! Do you mean--she sent a message--to ME?\" he\ndemanded.\n\n\"Yes; about the story, 'The Princess and the Pauper,' you know.\"\n\nWith an abrupt exclamation Mr. Jack set the lamp on the table and\nturned to a chair. He had apparently lost his haste to go to bed.\n\n\"See here, David, suppose you come and sit down, and tell me just what\nyou're talking about. And first--just what does the Lady of the Roses\nknow about that--that 'Princess and the Pauper'?\"\n\n\"Why, she knows it all, of course,\" returned the boy in surprise. \"I\ntold it to her.\"\n\n\"You--told--it--to her!\" Mr. Jack relaxed in his chair. \"David!\"\n\n\"Yes. And she was just as interested as could be.\"\n\n\"I don't doubt it!\" Mr. Jack's lips snapped together a little grimly.\n\n\"Only she didn't like the ending, either.\"\n\nMr. Jack sat up suddenly.\n\n\"She didn't like--David, are you sure? Did she SAY that?\"\n\nDavid frowned in thought.\n\n\"Well, I don't know as I can tell, exactly, but I'm sure she did n't\nlike it, because just before she told me WHAT to say to you, she said\nthat--that what she was going to say would probably have something to\ndo with the ending, anyway. Still--\" David paused in yet deeper\nthought. \"Come to think of it, there really isn't anything--not in what\nshe said--that CHANGED that ending, as I can see. They didn't get\nmarried and live happy ever after, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Yes, but what did she say?\" asked Mr. Jack in a voice that was not\nquite steady. \"Now, be careful, David, and tell it just as she said it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I will,\" nodded David.  \"SHE said to do that, too.\"\n\n\"Did she?\" Mr. Jack leaned farther forward in his chair. \"But tell me,\nhow did she happen to--to say anything about it? Suppose you begin at\nthe beginning--away back, David. I want to hear it all--all!\"\n\nDavid gave a contented sigh, and settled himself more comfortably.\n\n\"Well, to begin with, you see, I told her the story long ago, before I\nwas sick, and she was ever so interested then, and asked lots of\nquestions. Then the other day something came up--I've forgotten\nhow--about the ending, and I told her how hard I'd tried to have you\nchange it, but you wouldn't. And she spoke right up quick and said\nprobably you didn't want to change it, anyhow. But of course I settled\nTHAT question without any trouble,\" went on David confidently, \"by just\ntelling her how you said you'd give anything in the world to change it.\"\n\n\"And you told her that--just that, David?\" cried the man.\n\n\"Why, yes, I had to,\" answered David, in surprise, \"else she wouldn't\nhave known that you DID want to change it. Don't you see?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! I--see--a good deal that I'm thinking you don't,\" muttered\nMr. Jack, falling back in his chair.\n\n\"Well, then is when I told her about the logical ending--what you said,\nyou know,--oh, yes! and that was when I found out she did n't like the\nending, because she laughed such a funny little laugh and colored up,\nand said that she wasn't sure she could tell me what a logical ending\nwas, but that she would try to find out, and that, anyhow, YOUR ending\nwouldn't be hers--she was sure of that.\"\n\n\"David, did she say that--really?\" Mr. Jack was on his feet now.\n\n\"She did; and then yesterday she asked me to come over, and she said\nsome more things,--about the story, I mean,--but she didn't say another\nthing about the ending. She didn't ever say anything about that except\nthat little bit I told you of a minute ago.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, but what did she say?\" demanded Mr. Jack, stopping short in\nhis walk up and down the room.\n\n\"She said: 'You tell Mr. Jack that I know something about that story of\nhis that perhaps he doesn't. In the first place, I know the Princess a\nlot better than he does, and she isn't a bit the kind of girl he's\npictured her.\"\n\n\"Yes! Go on--go on!\"\n\n\"'Now, for instance,' she says, 'when the boy made that call, after the\ngirl first came back, and when the boy didn't like it because they\ntalked of colleges and travels, and such things, you tell him that I\nhappen to know that that girl was just hoping and hoping he'd speak of\nthe old days and games; but that she could n't speak, of course, when\nhe hadn't been even once to see her during all those weeks, and when\nhe'd acted in every way just as if he'd forgotten.'\"\n\n\"But she hadn't waved--that Princess hadn't waved--once!\" argued Mr.\nJack; \"and he looked and looked for it.\"\n\n\"Yes, SHE spoke of that,\" returned David. \"But SHE said she shouldn't\nthink the Princess would have waved, when she'd got to be such a great\nbig girl as that--WAVING to a BOY! She said that for her part she\nshould have been ashamed of her if she had!\"\n\n\"Oh, did she!\" murmured Mr. Jack blankly, dropping suddenly into his\nchair.\n\n\"Yes, she did,\" repeated David, with a little virtuous uplifting of his\nchin.\n\nIt was plain to be seen that David's sympathies had unaccountably met\nwith a change of heart.\n\n\"But--the Pauper--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, and that's another thing,\" interrupted David. \"The Lady of\nthe Roses said that she didn't like that name one bit; that it wasn't\ntrue, anyway, because he wasn't a pauper. And she said, too, that as\nfor his picturing the Princess as being perfectly happy in all that\nmagnificence, he didn't get it right at all. For SHE knew that the\nPrincess wasn't one bit happy, because she was so lonesome for things\nand people she had known when she was just the girl.\"\n\nAgain Mr. Jack sprang to his feet. For a minute he strode up and down\nthe room in silence; then in a shaking voice he asked:--\n\n\"David, you--you aren't making all this up, are you? You're saying just\nwhat--what Miss Holbrook told you to?\"\n\n\"Why, of course, I'm not making it up,\" protested the boy aggrievedly.\n\"This is the Lady of the Roses' story--SHE made it up--only she talked\nit as if 't was real, of course, just as you did. She said another\nthing, too. She said that she happened to know that the Princess had\ngot all that magnificence around her in the first place just to see if\nit wouldn't make her happy, but that it hadn't, and that now she had\none place--a little room--that was left just as it used to be when she\nwas the girl, and that she went there and sat very often. And she said\nit was right in sight of where the boy lived, too, where he could see\nit every day; and that if he hadn't been so blind he could have looked\nright through those gray walls and seen that, and seen lots of other\nthings. And what did she mean by that, Mr. Jack?\"\n\n\"I don't know--I don't know, David,\" half-groaned Mr. Jack. \"Sometimes\nI think she means--and then I think that can't be--true.\"\n\n\"But do you think it's helped it any--the story?\" persisted the boy.\n\"She's only talked a little about the Princess. She didn't really\nchange things any--not the ending.\"\n\n\"But she said it might, David--she said it might! Don't you remember?\"\ncried the man eagerly. And to David, his eagerness did not seem at all\nstrange. Mr. Jack had said before--long ago--that he would be very glad\nindeed to have a happier ending to this tale. \"Think now,\" continued\nthe man. \"Perhaps she said something else, too. Did she say anything\nelse, David?\"\n\nDavid shook his head slowly.\n\n\"No, only--yes, there was a little something, but it doesn't CHANGE\nthings any, for it was only a 'supposing.' She said: 'Just supposing,\nafter long years, that the Princess found out about how the boy felt\nlong ago, and suppose he should look up at the tower some day, at the\nold time, and see a ONE--TWO wave, which meant, \"Come over to see me.\"\nJust what do you suppose he would do?' But of course, THAT can't do any\ngood,\" finished David gloomily, as he rose to go to bed, \"for that was\nonly a 'supposing.'\"\n\n\"Of course,\" agreed Mr. Jack steadily; and David did not know that only\nstern self-control had forced the steadiness into that voice, nor that,\nfor Mr. Jack, the whole world had burst suddenly into song.\n\nNeither did David, the next morning, know that long before eight\no'clock Mr. Jack stood at a certain window, his eyes unswervingly fixed\non the gray towers of Sunnycrest. What David did know, however, was\nthat just after eight, Mr. Jack strode through the room where he and\nJill were playing checkers, flung himself into his hat and coat, and\nthen fairly leaped down the steps toward the path that led to the\nfootbridge at the bottom of the hill.\n\n\"Why, whatever in the world ails Jack?\" gasped Jill. Then, after a\nstartled pause, she asked. \"David, do folks ever go crazy for joy?\nYesterday, you see, Jack got two splendid pieces of news. One was from\nhis doctor. He was examined, and he's fine, the doctor says; all well,\nso he can go back, now any time, to the city and work. I shall go to\nschool then, you know,--a young ladies' school,\" she finished, a little\nimportantly.\n\n\"He's well? How splendid! But what was the other news? You said there\nwere two; only it couldn't have been nicer than that was; to be\nwell--all well!\"\n\n\"The other? Well, that was only that his old place in the city was\nwaiting for him. He was with a firm of big lawyers, you know, and of\ncourse it is nice to have a place all waiting. But I can't see anything\nin those things to make him act like this, now. Can you?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, maybe,\" declared David. \"He's found his work--don't you\nsee?--out in the world, and he's going to do it. I know how I'd feel if\nI had found mine that father told me of! Only what I can't understand\nis, if Mr. Jack knew all this yesterday, why did n't he act like this\nthen, instead of waiting till to-day?\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Jill.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nTHE BEAUTIFUL WORLD\n\nDavid found many new songs in his violin those early winter days, and\nthey were very beautiful ones. To begin with, there were all the kindly\nlooks and deeds that were showered upon him from every side. There was\nthe first snowstorm, too, with the feathery flakes turning all the\nworld to fairy whiteness. This song David played to Mr. Streeter, one\nday, and great was his disappointment that the man could not seem to\nunderstand what the song said.\n\n\"But don't you see?\" pleaded David. \"I'm telling you that it's your\npear-tree blossoms come back to say how glad they are that you didn't\nkill them that day.\"\n\n\"Pear-tree blossoms--come back!\" ejaculated the old man. \"Well, no, I\ncan't see. Where's yer pear-tree blossoms?\"\n\n\"Why, there--out of the window--everywhere,\" urged the boy.\n\n\"THERE! By ginger! boy--ye don't mean--ye CAN'T mean the SNOW!\"\n\n\"Of course I do! Now, can't you see it? Why, the whole tree was just a\ngreat big cloud of snowflakes. Don't you remember? Well, now it's gone\naway and got a whole lot more trees, and all the little white petals\nhave come dancing down to celebrate, and to tell you they sure are\ncoming back next year.\"\n\n\"Well, by ginger!\" exclaimed the man again. Then, suddenly, he threw\nback his head with a hearty laugh. David did not quite like the laugh,\nneither did he care for the five-cent piece that the man thrust into\nhis fingers a little later; though--had David but known it--both the\nlaugh and the five-cent piece gift were--for the uncomprehending man\nwho gave them--white milestones along an unfamiliar way.\n\nIt was soon after this that there came to David the great surprise--his\nbeloved Lady of the Roses and his no less beloved Mr. Jack were to be\nmarried at the beginning of the New Year. So very surprised, indeed,\nwas David at this, that even his violin was mute, and had nothing, at\nfirst, to say about it. But to Mr. Jack, as man to man, David said one\nday:--\n\n\"I thought men, when they married women, went courting. In story-books\nthey do. And you--you hardly ever said a word to my beautiful Lady of\nthe Roses; and you spoke once--long ago--as if you scarcely remembered\nher at all. Now, what do you mean by that?\"\n\nAnd Mr. Jack laughed, but he grew red, too,--and then he told it\nall,--that it was just the story of \"The Princess and the Pauper,\" and\nthat he, David, had been the one, as it happened, to do part of their\ncourting for them.\n\nAnd how David had laughed then, and how he had fairly hugged himself\nfor joy! And when next he had picked up his violin, what a beautiful,\nbeautiful song he had found about it in the vibrant strings!\n\nIt was this same song, as it chanced, that he was playing in his room\nthat Saturday afternoon when the letter from Simeon Holly's long-lost\nson John came to the Holly farmhouse.\n\nDownstairs in the kitchen, Simeon Holly stood, with the letter in his\nhand.\n\n\"Ellen, we've got a letter from--John,\" he said. That Simeon Holly\nspoke of it at all showed how very far along HIS unfamiliar way he had\ncome since the last letter from John had arrived.\n\n\"From--John? Oh, Simeon! From John?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nSimeon sat down and tried to hide the shaking of his hand as he ran the\npoint of his knife under the flap of the envelope. \"We'll see what--he\nsays.\" And to hear him, one might have thought that letters from John\nwere everyday occurrences.\n\n\nDEAR FATHER: Twice before I have written [ran the letter], and received\nno answer. But I'm going to make one more effort for forgiveness. May I\nnot come to you this Christmas? I have a little boy of my own now, and\nmy heart aches for you. I know how I should feel, should he, in years\nto come, do as I did.\n\nI'll not deceive you--I have not given up my art. You told me once to\nchoose between you and it--and I chose, I suppose; at least, I ran\naway. Yet in the face of all that, I ask you again, may I not come to\nyou at Christmas? I want you, father, and I want mother. And I want you\nto see my boy.\n\n\n\"Well?\" said Simeon Holly, trying to speak with a steady coldness that\nwould not show how deeply moved he was. \"Well, Ellen?\"\n\n\"Yes, Simeon, yes!\" choked his wife, a world of mother-love and longing\nin her pleading eyes and voice. \"Yes--you'll let it be--'Yes'!\"\n\n\"Uncle Simeon, Aunt Ellen,\" called David, clattering down the stairs\nfrom his room, \"I've found such a beautiful song in my violin, and I'm\ngoing to play it over and over so as to be sure and remember it for\nfather--for it is a beautiful world, Uncle Simeon, isn't it? Now,\nlisten!\"\n\nAnd Simeon Holly listened--but it was not the violin that he heard. It\nwas the voice of a little curly-headed boy out of the past.\n\nWhen David stopped playing some time later, only the woman sat watching\nhim--the man was over at his desk, pen in hand.\n\nJohn, John's wife, and John's boy came the day before Christmas, and\ngreat was the excitement in the Holly farmhouse. John was found to be\nbig, strong, and bronzed with the outdoor life of many a sketching\ntrip--a son to be proud of, and to be leaned upon in one's old age.\nMrs. John, according to Perry Larson, was \"the slickest little woman\ngoin'.\" According to John's mother, she was an almost unbelievable\nincarnation of a long-dreamed-of, long-despaired-of daughter--sweet,\nlovable, and charmingly beautiful. Little John--little John was\nhimself; and he could not have been more had he been an angel-cherub\nstraight from heaven--which, in fact, he was, in his doting\ngrandparents' eyes.\n\nJohn Holly had been at his old home less than four hours when he\nchanced upon David's violin. He was with his father and mother at the\ntime. There was no one else in the room. With a sidelong glance at his\nparents, he picked up the instrument--John Holly had not forgotten his\nown youth. His violin-playing in the old days had not been welcome, he\nremembered.\n\n\"A fiddle! Who plays?\" he asked.\n\n\"David.\"\n\n\"Oh, the boy. You say you--took him in? By the way, what an odd little\nshaver he is! Never did I see a BOY like HIM.\" Simeon Holly's head came\nup almost aggressively.\n\n\"David is a good boy--a very good boy, indeed, John. We think a great\ndeal of him.\"\n\nJohn Holly laughed lightly, yet his brow carried a puzzled frown. Two\nthings John Holly had not been able thus far to understand: an\nindefinable change in his father, and the position of the boy David, in\nthe household--John Holly was still remembering his own repressed youth.\n\n\"Hm-m,\" he murmured, softly picking the strings, then drawing across\nthem a tentative bow. \"I've a fiddle at home that I play sometimes. Do\nyou mind if I--tune her up?\"\n\nA flicker of something that was very near to humor flashed from his\nfather's eyes.\n\n\"Oh, no. We are used to that--now.\" And again John Holly remembered his\nyouth.\n\n\"Jove! but he's got the dandy instrument here,\" cried the player,\ndropping his bow after the first half-dozen superbly vibrant tones, and\ncarrying the violin to the window. A moment later he gave an amazed\nejaculation and turned on his father a dumfounded face.\n\n\"Great Scott, father! Where did that boy get this instrument? I KNOW\nsomething of violins, if I can't play them much; and this--! Where DID\nhe get it?\"\n\n\"Of his father, I suppose. He had it when he came here, anyway.\"\n\n\"'Had it when he came'! But, father, you said he was a tramp, and--oh,\ncome, tell me, what is the secret behind this? Here I come home and\nfind calmly reposing on my father's sitting-room table a violin that's\npriceless, for all I know. Anyhow, I do know that its value is reckoned\nin the thousands, not hundreds: and yet you, with equal calmness, tell\nme it's owned by this boy who, it's safe to say, doesn't know how to\nplay sixteen notes on it correctly, to say nothing of appreciating\nthose he does play; and who, by your own account, is nothing but--\" A\nswiftly uplifted hand of warning stayed the words on his lips. He\nturned to see David himself in the doorway.\n\n\"Come in, David,\" said Simeon Holly quietly. \"My son wants to hear you\nplay. I don't think he has heard you.\" And again there flashed from\nSimeon Holly's eyes a something very much like humor.\n\nWith obvious hesitation John Holly relinquished the violin. From the\nexpression on his face it was plain to be seen the sort of torture he\ndeemed was before him. But, as if constrained to ask the question, he\ndid say:--\n\n\"Where did you get this violin, boy?\"\n\n\"I don't know. We've always had it, ever since I could remember--this\nand the other one.\"\n\n\"The OTHER one!\"\n\n\"Father's.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" He hesitated; then, a little severely, he observed: \"This is a\nfine instrument, boy,--a very fine instrument.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" nodded David, with a cheerful smile. \"Father said it was. I like\nit, too. This is an Amati, but the other is a Stradivarius. I don't\nknow which I do like best, sometimes, only this is mine.\"\n\nWith a half-smothered ejaculation John Holly fell back limply.\n\n\"Then you--do--know?\" he challenged.\n\n\"Know--what?\"\n\n\"The value of that violin in your hands.\"\n\nThere was no answer. The boy's eyes were questioning.\n\n\"The worth, I mean,--what it's worth.\"\n\n\"Why, no--yes--that is, it's worth everything--to me,\" answered David,\nin a puzzled voice.\n\nWith an impatient gesture John Holly brushed this aside.\n\n\"But the other one--where is that?\"\n\n\"At Joe Glaspell's. I gave it to him to play on, because he had n't\nany, and he liked to play so well.\"\n\n\"You GAVE it to him--a Stradivarius!\"\n\n\"I loaned it to him,\" corrected David, in a troubled voice. \"Being\nfather's, I couldn't bear to give it away. But Joe--Joe had to have\nsomething to play on.\"\n\n\"'Something to play on'! Father, he doesn't mean the River Street\nGlaspells?\" cried John Holly.\n\n\"I think he does. Joe is old Peleg Glaspell's grandson.\" John Holly\nthrew up both his hands.\n\n\"A Stradivarius--to old Peleg's grandson! Oh, ye gods!\" he muttered.\n\"Well, I'll be--\" He did not finish his sentence. At another word from\nSimeon Holly, David had begun to play.\n\nFrom his seat by the stove Simeon Holly watched his son's face--and\nsmiled. He saw amazement, unbelief, and delight struggle for the\nmastery; but before the playing had ceased, he was summoned by Perry\nLarson to the kitchen on a matter of business. So it was into the\nkitchen that John Holly burst a little later, eyes and cheek aflame.\n\n\"Father, where in Heaven's name DID you get that boy?\" he demanded.\n\"Who taught  him to play like that? I've been trying to find out from\nhim, but I'd defy Sherlock Holmes himself to make head or tail of the\nsort of lingo he talks, about mountain homes and the Orchestra of Life!\nFather, what DOES it mean?\"\n\nObediently Simeon Holly told the story then, more fully than he had\ntold it before. He brought forward the letter, too, with its mysterious\nsignature.\n\n\"Perhaps you can make it out, son,\" he laughed. \"None of the rest of us\ncan, though I haven't shown it to anybody now for a long time. I got\ndiscouraged long ago of anybody's ever making it out.\"\n\n\"Make it out--make it out!\" cried John Holly excitedly; \"I should say I\ncould! It's a name known the world over. It's the name of one of the\ngreatest violinists that ever lived.\"\n\n\"But how--what--how came he in my barn?\" demanded Simeon Holly.\n\n\"Easily guessed, from the letter, and from what the world knows,\"\nreturned John, his voice still shaking with excitement. \"He was always\na queer chap, they say, and full of his notions. Six or eight years ago\nhis wife died. They say he worshiped her, and for weeks refused even to\ntouch his violin. Then, very suddenly, he, with his four-year-old son,\ndisappeared--dropped quite out of sight. Some people guessed the\nreason. I knew a man who was well acquainted with him, and at the time\nof the disappearance he told me quite a lot about him. He said he was\nn't a bit surprised at what had happened. That already half a dozen\nrelatives were interfering with the way he wanted to bring the boy up,\nand that David was in a fair way to be spoiled, even then, with so much\nattention and flattery. The father had determined to make a wonderful\nartist of his son, and he was known to have said that he believed--as\ndo so many others--that the first dozen years of a child's life are the\nmaking of the man, and that if he could have the boy to himself that\nlong he would risk the rest. So it seems he carried out his notion\nuntil he was taken sick, and had to quit--poor chap!\"\n\n\"But why didn't he tell us plainly in that note who he was, then?\"\nfumed Simeon Holly, in manifest irritation.\n\n\"He did, he thought,\" laughed the other. \"He signed his name, and he\nsupposed that was so well known that just to mention it would be\nenough. That's why he kept it so secret while he was living on the\nmountain, you see, and that's why even David himself didn't know it. Of\ncourse, if anybody found out who he was, that ended his scheme, and he\nknew it. So he supposed all he had to do at the last was to sign his\nname to that note, and everybody would know who he was, and David would\nat once be sent to his own people. (There's an aunt and some cousins, I\nbelieve.) You see he didn't reckon on nobody's being able to READ his\nname! Besides, being so ill, he probably wasn't quite sane, anyway.\"\n\n\"I see, I see,\" nodded Simeon Holly, frowning a little. \"And of course\nif we had made it out, some of us here would have known it, probably.\nNow that you call it to mind I think I have heard it myself in days\ngone by--though such names mean little to me. But doubtless somebody\nwould have known. However, that is all past and gone now.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, and no harm done. He fell into good hands, luckily. You'll\nsoon see the last of him now, of course.\"\n\n\"Last of him? Oh, no, I shall keep David,\" said Simeon Holly, with\ndecision.\n\n\"Keep him! Why, father, you forget who he is! There are friends,\nrelatives, an adoring public, and a mint of money awaiting that boy.\nYou can't keep him. You could never have kept him this long if this\nlittle town of yours hadn't been buried in this forgotten valley up\namong these hills. You'll have the whole world at your doors the minute\nthey find out he is here--hills or no hills! Besides, there are his\npeople; they have some claim.\"\n\nThere was no answer. With a suddenly old, drawn look on his face, the\nelder man had turned away.\n\nHalf an hour later Simeon Holly climbed the stairs to David's room, and\nas gently and plainly as he could told the boy of this great, good\nthing that had come to him.\n\nDavid was amazed, but overjoyed. That he was found to be the son of a\nfamous man affected him not at all, only so far as it seemed to set his\nfather right in other eyes--in David's own, the man had always been\nsupreme. But the going away--the marvelous going away--filled him with\nexcited wonder.\n\n\"You mean, I shall go away and study--practice--learn more of my\nviolin?\"\n\n\"Yes, David.\"\n\n\"And hear beautiful music like the organ in church, only\nmore--bigger--better?\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\".\n\n\"And know people--dear people--who will understand what I say when I\nplay?\"\n\nSimeon Holly's face paled a little; still, he knew David had not meant\nto make it so hard.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why, it's my 'start'--just what I was going to have with the\ngold-pieces,\" cried David joyously. Then, uttering a sharp cry of\nconsternation, he clapped his fingers to his lips.\n\n\"Your--what?\" asked the man.\n\n\"N--nothing, really, Mr. Holly,--Uncle Simeon,--n--nothing.\"\n\nSomething, either the boy's agitation, or the luckless mention of the\ngold-pieces sent a sudden dismayed suspicion into Simeon Holly's eyes.\n\n\"Your 'start'?--the 'gold-pieces'? David, what do you mean?\"\n\nDavid shook his head. He did not intend to tell. But gently,\npersistently, Simeon Holly questioned until the whole piteous little\ntale lay bare before him: the hopes, the house of dreams, the sacrifice.\n\nDavid saw then what it means when a strong man is shaken by an emotion\nthat has mastered him; and the sight awed and frightened the boy.\n\n\"Mr. Holly, is it because I'm--going--that you care--so much? I never\nthought--or supposed--you'd--CARE,\" he faltered.\n\nThere was no answer. Simeon Holly's eyes were turned quite away.\n\n\"Uncle Simeon--PLEASE! I--I think I don't want to go, anyway. I--I'm\nsure I don't want to go--and leave YOU!\"\n\nSimeon Holly turned then, and spoke.\n\n\"Go? Of course you'll go, David. Do you think I'd tie you here to\nme--NOW?\" he choked. \"What don't I owe to you--home, son, happiness!\nGo?--of course you'll go. I wonder if you really think I'd let you\nstay! Come, we'll go down to mother and tell her. I suspect she'll want\nto start in to-night to get your socks all mended up!\" And with head\nerect and a determined step, Simeon Holly faced the mighty sacrifice in\nhis turn, and led the way downstairs.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\nThe friends, the relatives, the adoring public, the mint of money--they\nare all David's now. But once each year, man grown though he is, he\npicks up his violin and journeys to a little village far up among the\nhills. There in a quiet kitchen he plays to an old man and an old\nwoman; and always to himself he says that he is practicing against the\ntime when, his violin at his chin and the bow drawn across the strings,\nhe shall go to meet his father in the far-away land, and tell him of\nthe beautiful world he has left."