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DAVID DUNNE

A Romance of the Middle West

by

BELLE KANARIS MANIATES

With illustrations by John Drew







[Illustration: "_He stood as if at bay, his face pale, his eyes riveted
on those floating banners_" Page 218]



Rand McNally & Company
Chicago--New York

Copyright, 1912, by
Rand, McNally & Company





To Milly and Gardner




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 "_He stood as if at bay, his face pale, his eyes
 riveted on those floating banners_"                    _Frontispiece_

                                                           FACING PAGE

 "'_Dave's little gal!_'"                                           11

 "_With proudly protective air, David walked beside
 the stiffly starched little girl_"                                 42

 "_David's friends were surprised to receive an
 off-hand invitation from him to 'drop in for a little
 country spread'_"                                                 148

 "_He kept his word. Jud was cleared_"                             158

 "_It was a relief to find Carey alone_"                           224

 "_'Carey, will you make the dream a reality?'_"                   238




[Illustration: "'_Dave's little gal!_'"]




PART ONE

CHAPTER I


Across lots to the Brumble farm came the dusty apparition of a boy, a
tousle-headed, freckle-faced, gaunt-eyed little fellow, clad in a sort
of combination suit fashioned from a pair of overalls and a woman's
shirtwaist. In search of "Miss M'ri," he looked into the kitchen, the
henhouse, the dairy, and the flower garden. Not finding her in any of
these accustomed places, he stood still in perplexity.

"Miss M'ri!" rang out his youthful, vibrant treble.

There was a note of promise in the pleasant voice that came back in
subterranean response.

"Here, David, in the cellar."

The lad set down the tin pail he was carrying and eagerly sped to the
cellar. His fondest hopes were realized. M'ri Brumble, thirty odd
years of age, blue of eye, slightly gray of hair, and sweet of heart,
was lifting the cover from the ice-cream freezer.

"Well, David Dunne, you came in the nick of time," she said, looking
up with kindly eyes. "It's just frozen. I'll dish you up some now, if
you will run up to the pantry and fetch two saucers--biggest you can
find."

Fleetly David footed the stairs and returned with two soup plates.

"These were the handiest," he explained apologetically as he handed
them to her.

"Just the thing," promptly reassured M'ri, transferring a heaping
ladle of yellow cream to one of the plates. "Easy to eat out of,
too."

"My, but you are giving me a whole lot," he said, watching her
approvingly and encouragingly. "I hope you ain't robbing yourself."

"Oh, no; I always make plenty," she replied, dishing a smaller portion
for herself. "Here's enough for our dinner and some for you to carry
home to your mother."

"I haven't had any since last Fourth of July," he observed in
plaintive reminiscence as they went upstairs.

"Why, David Dunne, how you talk! You just come over here whenever you
feel like eating ice cream, and I'll make you some. It's no trouble."

They sat down on the west, vine-clad porch to enjoy their feast in
leisure and shade. M'ri had never lost her childish appreciation of
the delicacy, and to David the partaking thereof was little short of
ecstasy. He lingered longingly over the repast, and when the soup
plate would admit of no more scraping he came back with a sigh to
sordid cares.

"Mother couldn't get the washing done no-ways to-day. She ain't
feeling well, but you can have the clothes to-morrow, sure. She sent
you some sorghum," pointing to the pail.

M'ri took the donation into the kitchen. When she brought back the
pail it was filled with eggs. Not to send something in return would
have been an unpardonable breach of country etiquette.

"Your mother said your hens weren't laying," she said.

The boy's eyes brightened.

"Thank you, Miss M'ri; these will come in good. Our hens won't lay nor
set. Mother says they have formed a union. But I 'most forgot to tell
you--when I came past Winterses, Ziny told me to ask you to come over
as soon as you could."

"I suppose Zine has got one of her low spells," said Barnabas Brumble,
who had just come up from the barn. "Most likely Bill's bin gittin'
tight agin. He--"

"Oh, no!" interrupted his sister hastily. "Bill has quit drinking."

"Bill's allers a-quittin'. Trouble with Bill is, he can't stay quit. I
see him yesterday comin' down the road zig-zaggin' like a rail fence.
Fust she knows, she'll hev to be takin' washin' to support him.
Sometimes I think 't would be a good idee to let him git sent over the
road onct. Mebby 't would learn him a lesson--"

He stopped short, noticing the significant look in M'ri's eyes and the
two patches of color spreading over David's thin cheeks. He recalled
that four years ago the boy's father had died in state prison.

"You'd better go right over to Zine's," he added abruptly.

"I'll wait till after dinner. We'll have it early."

"Hev it now," suggested Barnabas.

"Now!" ejaculated David. "It's only half-past ten."

"I could eat it now jest as well as I could at twelve," argued the
philosophical Barnabas. "Jest as leaves as not."

There were no iron-clad rules in this comfortable household,
especially when Pennyroyal, the help, was away.

"All right," assented M'ri with alacrity. "If I am going to do
anything, I like to do it right off quick and get it over with. You
stay, David, if you can eat dinner so early."

"Yes, I can," he assured her, recalling his scanty breakfast and the
freezer of cream that was to furnish the dessert. "I'll help you get
it, Miss M'ri."

He brought a pail of water from the well, filled the teakettle, and
then pared the potatoes for her.

"When will Jud and Janey get their dinner?" he asked Barnabas.

"They kerried their dinner to-day. The scholars air goin' to hev a
picnic down to Spicely's grove. How comes it you ain't to school,
Dave?"

"I have to help my mother with the washing," he replied, a slow flush
coming to his face. "She ain't strong enough to do it alone."

"What on airth kin you do about a washin', Dave?"

"I can draw the water, turn the wringer, hang up the clothes, empty
the tubs, fetch and carry the washings, and mop."

Barnabas puffed fiercely at his pipe for a moment.

"You're a good boy, Dave, a mighty good boy. I don't know what your ma
would do without you. I hed to leave school when I wa'n't as old as
you, and git out and hustle so the younger children could git
eddicated. By the time I wuz foot-loose from farm work, I wuz too old
to git any larnin'. You'd orter manage someway, though, to git
eddicated."

"Mother's taught me to read and write and spell. When I get old enough
to work for good wages I can go into town to the night school."

In a short time M'ri had cooked a dinner that would have tempted less
hearty appetites than those possessed by her brother and David.

"You ain't what might be called a delikit feeder, Dave," remarked
Barnabas, as he replenished the boy's plate for the third time.
"You're so lean I don't see where you put it all."

David might have responded that the vacuum was due to the fact that
his breakfast had consisted of a piece of bread and his last night's
supper of a dish of soup, but the Dunne pride inclined to reservation
on family and personal matters. He speared another small potato and
paused, with fork suspended between mouth and plate.

"Mother says she thinks I am hollow inside like a stovepipe."

"Well, I dunno. Stovepipes git filled sometimes," ruminated his host.

"Leave room for the ice cream, David," cautioned M'ri, as she
descended to the cellar.

The lad's eyes brightened as he beheld the golden pyramid. Another
period of lingering bliss, and then with a sigh of mingled content and
regret, David rose from the table.

"Want me to hook up for you, Mr. Brumble?" he asked, moved to show his
gratitude for the hospitality extended.

"Why, yes, Dave; wish you would. My back is sorter lame to-day. Land
o' livin'," he commented after David had gone to the barn, "but that
boy swallered them potaters like they wuz so many pills!"

"Poor Mrs. Dunne!" sighed M'ri. "I am afraid it's all she can do to
keep a very small pot boiling. I am glad she sent the sorghum, so I
could have an excuse for sending the eggs."

"She hain't poor so long as she hez a young sprout like Dave a-growin'
up. We used to call Peter Dunne 'Old Hickory,' but Dave, he's
second-growth hickory. He's the kind to bend and not break. Jest you
wait till he's seasoned onct."

After she had packed a pail of ice cream for David, gathered some
flowers for Ziny, and made out a memorandum of supplies for Barnabas
to get in town, M'ri set out on her errand of mercy.

The "hooking up" accomplished, David, laden with a tin pail in each
hand and carrying in his pocket a drawing of black tea for his mother
to sample, made his way through sheep-dotted pastures to Beechum's
woods, and thence along the bank of the River Rood. Presently he spied
a young man standing knee-deep in the stream in the patient pose
peculiar to fishermen.

"Catch anything?" called David eagerly.

The man turned and came to shore. He wore rubber hip boots, dark
trousers, a blue flannel shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat. His eyes, blue
and straight-gazing, rested reminiscently upon the lad.

"No," he replied calmly. "I didn't intend to catch anything. What is
your name?"

"David Dunne."

The man meditated.

"You must be about twelve years old."

"How did you know?"

"I am a good guesser. What have you got in your pail?"

"Which one?"

"Both."

"Thought you were a good guesser."

The youth laughed.

"You'll do, David. Let me think--where did you come from just now?"

"From Brumble's."

"It's ice cream you've got in your pail," he said assuredly.

"That's just what it is!" cried the boy in astonishment, "and there's
eggs in the other pail."

"Let's have a look at the ice cream."

David lifted the cover.

"It looks like butter," declared the stranger.

"It don't taste like butter," was the indignant rejoinder. "Miss M'ri
makes the best cream of any one in the country."

"I knew that, my young friend, before you did. It's a long time since
I had any, though. Will you sell it to me, David? I will give you half
a dollar for it."

Half a dollar! His mother had to work all day to earn that amount. The
ice cream was not his--not entirely. Miss M'ri had sent it to his
mother. Still--

"'T will melt anyway before I get home," he argued aloud and
persuasively.

"Of course it will," asserted the would-be purchaser.

David surrendered the pail, and after much protestation consented to
receive the piece of money which the young man pressed upon him.

"You'll have to help me eat it now; there's no pleasure in eating ice
cream alone."

"We haven't any spoons," commented the boy dubiously.

"We will go to my house and eat it."

"Where do you live?" asked David in surprise.

"Just around the bend of the river here."

David's freckles darkened. He didn't like to be made game of by older
people, for then there was no redress.

"There isn't any house within two miles of here," he said shortly.

"What'll you bet? Half a dollar?"

"No," replied David resolutely.

"Well, come and see."

David followed his new acquaintance around the wooded bank. The river
was full of surprises to-day. In midstream he saw what looked to him
like a big raft supporting a small house.

"That's my shanty boat," explained the young man, as he shoved a
rowboat from shore. "Jump in, my boy."

"Do you live in it all the time?" asked David, watching with
admiration the easy but forceful pull on the oars.

"No; I am on a little fishing and hunting expedition."

"Can't kill anything now," said the boy, a derisive smile flickering
over his features.

"I am not hunting to kill, my lad. I am hunting old scenes and
memories of other days. I used to live about here. I ran away eight
years ago when I was just your age."

"What is your name?" asked David interestedly.

"Joe Forbes."

"Oh," was the eager rejoinder. "I know. You are Deacon Forbes' wild
son that ran away."

"So that's how I am known around here, is it? Well, I've come back, to
settle up my father's estate."

"What did you run away for?" inquired David.

"Combination of too much stepmother and a roving spirit, I guess. Here
we are."

He sprang on the platform of the shanty boat and helped David on
board. The boy inspected this novel house in wonder while his host set
saucers and spoons on the table.

"Would you mind," asked David in an embarrassed manner as he wistfully
eyed the coveted luxury, "if I took my dishful home?"

"What's the matter?" asked Forbes, his eyes twinkling. "Eaten too much
already?"

"No; but you see my mother likes it and she hasn't had any since last
summer. I'd rather take mine to her."

"There's plenty left for your mother. I'll put this pail in a bigger
one and pack ice about it. Then it won't melt."

"But you paid me for it," protested David.

"That's all right. Your mother was pretty good to me when I was a
boy. She dried my mop of hair for me once so my stepmother would not
know I'd been in swimming. Tell her I sent the cream to her. Say, you
were right about Miss M'ri making the best cream in the country. It
used to be a chronic pastime with her. That's how I guessed what you
had when you said you came from there. Whenever there was a picnic or
a surprise party in the country she always furnished the ice cream.
Isn't she married yet?"

"No."

"Doesn't she keep company with some lucky man?"

"No," again denied the boy emphatically.

"What's the matter? She used to be awfully pretty and sweet."

"She is now, but she don't want any man."

"Well, now, David, that isn't quite natural, you know. Why do you
think she doesn't want one?"

"I heard say she was crossed once."

"Crossed, David? And what might that be?" asked Forbes in a delighted
feint of perplexity.

"Disappointed in love, you know."

"Yes; it all comes back now--the gossip of my boyhood days. She was
going with a man when Barnabas' wife died and left two children--one a
baby--and Miss M'ri gave up her lover to do her duty by her brother's
family. So Barnabas never married again?"

"No; Miss M'ri keeps house and brings up Jud and Janey."

"I remember Jud--mean little shaver. Janey must be the baby."

"She's eight now."

"I remember you, David. You were a little toddler of four--all eyes.
Your folks had a place right on the edge of town."

"We left it when I was six years old and came out here," informed
David.

Forbes' groping memory recalled the gossip that had reached him in the
Far West. "Dunne went to prison," he mused, "and the farm was
mortgaged to defray the expenses of the trial." He hastened back to a
safer channel.

"Miss M'ri was foolish to spoil her life and the man's for fancied
duty," he observed.

David bridled.

"Barnabas couldn't go to school when he was a boy because he had to
work so she and the other children could go. She'd ought to have stood
by him."

"I see you have a sense of duty, too. This county was always strong on
duty. I suppose they've got it in for me because I ran away?"

"Mr. Brumble says it was a wise thing for you to do. Uncle Larimy says
you were a brick of a boy. Miss Rhody says she had no worry about her
woodpile getting low when you were here."

"Poor Miss Rhody! Does she still live alone? And Uncle Larimy--is he
uncle to the whole community? What fishing days I had with him! I must
look him up and tell him all my adventures. I have planned a round of
calls for to-night--Miss M'ri, Miss Rhody, Uncle Larimy--"

"Tell me about your adventures," demanded David breathlessly.

He listened to a wondrous tale of western life, and never did narrator
get into so close relation with his auditor as did this young ranchman
with David Dunne.

"I must go home," said the boy reluctantly when Joe had concluded.

"Come down to-morrow, David, and we'll go fishing."

"All right. Thank you, sir."

With heart as light as air, David sped through the woods. He had found
his Hero.




CHAPTER II


David struck out from the shelter of the woodland and made his way to
his home, a pathetically small, rudely constructed house. The patch of
land supposed to be a garden, and in proportion to the dimensions of
the building, showed a few feeble efforts at vegetation. It was not
positively known that the Widow Dunne had a clear title to her
homestead, but one would as soon think of foreclosing a mortgage on a
playhouse, or taking a nest from a bird, as to press any claim on this
fallow fragment in the midst of prosperous farmlands.

Some discouraged looking fowls picked at the scant grass, a lean cow
switched a lackadaisical tail, and in a pen a pig grunted his
discontent.

David went into the little kitchen, where a woman was bending wearily
over a washtub.

"Mother," cried the boy in dismay, "you said you'd let the washing go
till to-morrow. That's why I didn't come right back."

She paused in the rubbing of a soaped garment and wrung the suds from
her tired and swollen hands.

"I felt better, David, and I thought I'd get them ready for you to
hang out."

David took the garment from her.

"Sit down and eat this ice cream Miss M'ri sent--no, I mean Joe Forbes
sent you. There was more, but I sold it for half a dollar; and here's
a pail of eggs and a drawing of tea she wants you to sample. She says
she is no judge of black tea."

"Joe Forbes!" exclaimed his mother interestedly. "I thought maybe he
would be coming back to look after the estate. Is he going to stay?"

"I'll tell you all about him, mother, if you will sit down."

He began a vigorous turning of the wringer.

The patient, tired-looking eyes of the woman brightened as she dished
out a saucer of the cream. The weariness in the sensitive lines of her
face and the prominence of her knuckles bore evidence of a life of
sordid struggle, but, above all, the mother love illumined her
features with a flash of radiance.

"You're a good provider, David; but tell me where you have been for so
long, and where did you see Joe?"

He gave her a faithful account of his dinner at the Brumble farm and
his subsequent meeting with Joe, working the wringer steadily as he
talked.

"There!" he exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction, "they are ready for
the line, but before I hang them out I am going to cook your dinner."

"I am rested now, David. I will cook me an egg."

"No, I will," insisted the boy, going to the stove.

A few moments later, with infinite satisfaction, he watched her
partake of crisp toast, fresh eggs, and savory tea.

"Did you see Jud and Janey?" she asked suddenly.

"No; they were at school."

"David, you shall go regularly to school next fall."

"No," said David stoutly; "next fall I am going to work regularly for
some of the farmers, and you are not going to wash any more."

Her eyes grew moist.

"David, will you always be good--will you grow up to be as good a man
as I want you to be?"

"How good do you want me to be?" he asked dubiously.

A radiant and tender smile played about her mouth.

"Not goodygood, David; but will you always be honest, and brave, and
kind, as you are now?"

"I'll try, mother."

"And never forget those who do you a kindness, David; always show your
gratitude."

"Yes, mother."

"And, David, watch your temper and, whatever happens, I shall have no
fears for your future."

His mother seldom talked to him in this wise. He thought about it
after he lay in his little cot in the sitting room that night; then
his mind wandered to Joe Forbes and his wonderful tales of the West.
He fell asleep to dream of cowboys and prairies. When he awoke the sun
was sending golden beams through the eastward window.

"Mother isn't up," he thought in surprise. He stole quietly out to the
kitchen, kindled a fire with as little noise as possible, put the
kettle over, set the table, and then went into the one tiny bedroom
where his mother lay in her bed, still--very still.

"Mother," he said softly.

There was no response.

"Mother," he repeated. Then piercingly, in excitement and fear,
"Mother!"

At last he knew.

He ran wildly to the outer door. Bill Winters, fortunately sober, was
driving slowly by.

"Bill!"

"What's the matter, Dave?" looking into the boy's white face. "Your ma
ain't sick, is she?"

David's lips quivered, but seemed almost unable to articulate.

"She's dead," he finally whispered.

"I'll send Zine right over," exclaimed Bill, slapping the reins
briskly across the drooping neck of his horse.

Very soon the little house was filled to overflowing with kind and
sympathetic neighbors who had come to do all that had to be done.
David sat on the back doorstep until M'ri came; before the expression
in his eyes she felt powerless to comfort him.

"The doctor says your mother died in her sleep," she told him. "She
didn't suffer any."

He made no reply. Oppressed by the dull pain for which there is no
ease, he wandered from the house to the garden, and from the garden
back to the house throughout the day. At sunset Barnabas drove over.

"I shall stay here to-night, Barnabas," said M'ri, "but I want you to
drive back and get some things. I've made out a list. Janey will know
where to find them."

"Sha'n't I take Dave back to stay to-night?" he suggested.

M'ri hesitated, and looked at David.

"No," he said dully, following Barnabas listlessly down the path to
the road.

Barnabas, keen, shrewd, and sharp at a bargain, had a heart that ever
softened to motherless children.

"Dave," he said gently, "your ma won't never hev to wash no more, and
she'll never be sick nor tired agen."

It was the first leaven to his loss, and he held tight to the horny
hand of his comforter. After Barnabas had driven away there came
trudging down the road the little, lithe figure of an old man, who was
carrying a large box. His mildly blue, inquiring eyes looked out from
beneath their hedge of shaggy eyebrows. His hair and his beard were
thick and bushy. Joe Forbes maintained that Uncle Larimy would look no
different if his head were turned upside down.

"David," he said softly, "I've brung yer ma some posies. She liked my
yaller roses, you know. I'm sorry my laylocks are gone. They come
early this year."

"Thank you, Uncle Larimy."

A choking sensation warned David to say no more.

"Things go 'skew sometimes, Dave, but the sun will shine agen,"
reminded the old man, as he went on into the house.

Later, when sundown shadows had vanished and the first glimmer of the
stars radiated from a pale sky, Joe came over. David felt no thrill at
sight of his hero. The halo was gone. He only remembered with a dull
ache that the half dollar had brought his mother none of the luxuries
he had planned to buy for her.

"David," said the young ranchman, his deep voice softened, "my mother
died when I was younger than you are, but you won't have a stepmother
to make life unbearable for you."

The boy looked at him with inscrutable eyes.

"Don't you want to go back with me to the ranch, David? You can learn
to ride and shoot."

David shook his head forlornly. His spirit of adventure was
smothered.

"We'll talk about it again, David," he said, as he went in to consult
M'ri.

"Don't you think the only thing for the boy to do is to go back with
me? I am going to buy the ranch on which I've been foreman, and I'll
try to do for David all that should have been done for me when I, at
his age, felt homeless and alone. He's the kind that takes things hard
and quiet; life in the open will pull him up."

"No, Joe," replied M'ri resolutely. "He's not ready for that kind of
life yet. He needs to be with women and children a while longer.
Barnabas and I are going to take him. Barnabas suggested it, and I
told Mrs. Dunne one day, when her burdens were getting heavy, that we
would do so if anything like this should happen."

Joe looked at her with revering eyes.

"Miss M'ri, you are so good to other people's children, what would you
be to your own!"

The passing of M'ri's youth had left a faint flush of prettiness like
the afterglow of a sunset faded into twilight. She was of the kind
that old age would never wither. In the deep blue eyes was a patient,
reflective look that told of a past but unforgotten romance. She
turned from his gaze, but not before he had seen the wistfulness his
speech had evoked. After he had gone, she sought David.

"I am going to stay here with you, David, for two or three days. Then
Barnabas and I want you to come to live with us. I had a long talk
with your mother one day, and I told her if anything happened to her
you should be our boy. That made her less anxious about the future,
David. Will you come?"

The boy looked up with his first gleam of interest in mundane things.

"I'd like it, but would--Jud?"

"I am afraid Jud doesn't like anything, David," she replied with a
sigh. "That's one reason I want you--to be a big brother to Janey, for
I think that is what she needs, and what Jud can never be."

The boy remembered what his mother had counseled.

"I'll always take care of Janey," he earnestly assured her.

"I know you will, David."

Two dreary days passed in the way that such days do pass, and then
David rode to his new home with Barnabas and M'ri.

Jud Brumble, a refractory, ungovernable lad of fifteen, didn't look
altogether unfavorably upon the addition to the household, knowing
that his amount of work would thereby be lessened, and that he would
have a new victim for his persecutions and tyrannies.

Janey, a little rosebud of a girl with dimples and flaxen curls, hung
back shyly and looked at David with awed eyes. She had been frightened
by what she had heard about his mother, and in a vague, disconnected
way she associated him with Death. M'ri went to the child's bedside
that night and explained the situation. "Poor Davey is all alone, now,
and very unhappy, so we must be kind to him. I told him you were to be
his little sister."

Then M'ri took David to a gabled room, at each end of which was a
swinging window--"one for seeing the sun rise, and one for seeing it
set," she said, as she turned back the covers from the spotless white
bed. She yearned to console him, but before the mute look of grief in
his big eyes she was silent.

"I wish he would cry," she said wistfully to Barnabas, "he hasn't shed
a tear since his mother died."

No sooner had the sound of her footsteps ceased than David threw off
his armor of self-restraint and burst into a passion of sobs, the
wilder for their long repression. He didn't hear the patter of little
feet on the floor, and not until two mothering arms were about his
neck did he see the white-robed figure of Janey.

"Don't cry, Davey," she implored, her quivering red mouth against his
cheek. "I'm sorry; but I am your little sister now, so you must love
me, Davey. Aunt M'ri told me so."




CHAPTER III


The lilac-scented breeze of early morning blowing softly through the
vine-latticed window and stirring its white draperies brought David to
wakefulness. With the first surprise at the strangeness of his
surroundings came a fluttering of memory. The fragrance of lilacs was
always hereafter to bring back the awfulness of this waking moment.

He hurriedly dressed, and went down to the kitchen where M'ri was
preparing breakfast.

"Good morning, David. Janey has gone to find some fresh eggs. You may
help her hunt them, if you will."

Knowing the haunts of hens, he went toward the currant bushes. It was
one of those soft days that link late spring and dawning summer. The
coolness of the sweet-odored air, the twitter of numberless dawn
birds, the entreating lowing of distant cattle--all breathing life and
strength--were like a resurrection call to David.

On the east porch, which was his retreat for a smoke or a rest between
the intervals of choring and meals, Barnabas sat, securely wedged in
by the washing machine, the refrigerator, the plant stand, the churn,
the kerosene can, and the lawn mower. He gazed reflectively after
David.

"What are you going to hev Dave do to help, M'ri?"

M'ri came to the door and considered a moment.

"First of all, Barnabas, I am going to have him eat. He is so thin and
hungry looking."

Barnabas chuckled. His sister's happiest mission was the feeding of
hungry children.

After breakfast, when Janey's rebellious curls were again being
brushed into shape, M'ri told David he could go to school if he liked.
To her surprise the boy flushed and looked uncomfortable. M'ri's
intuitions were quick and generally correct.

"It's so near the end of the term, though," she added casually, as an
afterthought, "that maybe you had better wait until next fall to start
in."

"Yes, please, Miss M'ri, I'd rather," he said quickly and gratefully.

When Janey, dinner pail in hand and books under arm, was ready to
start, David asked in surprise where Jud was.

"Oh, he has gone long ago. He thinks he is too big to walk with
Janey."

David quietly took the pail and books from the little girl.

"I'll take you to school, Janey, and come for you this afternoon."

"We won't need to git no watch dog to foller Janey," said Barnabas, as
the children started down the path.

"David," called M'ri, "stop at Miss Rhody's on your way back and find
out whether my waist is finished."

With proudly protective air, David walked beside the stiffly starched
little girl, who had placed her hand trustfully in his. They had gone
but a short distance when they were overtaken by Joe Forbes, mounted
on a shining black horse. He reined up and looked down on them
good-humoredly.

[Illustration: "_With proudly protective air, David walked beside the
stiffly starched little girl_"]

"Going to school, children?"

"I am. Davey's just going to carry my things for me," explained
Janey.

"Well, I can do that and carry you into the bargain. Help her up,
David."

Janey cried out in delight at the prospect of a ride. David lifted her
up, and Joe settled her comfortably in the saddle, encircling her with
his arm. Then he looked down whimsically into David's disappointed
eyes.

"I know it's a mean trick, Dave, to take your little sweetheart from
you."

"She's not my sweetheart; she's my sister."

"Has she promised to be that already? Get up, Firefly."

They were off over the smooth country road, Forbes shouting a
bantering good-by and Janey waving a triumphant dinner pail, while
David, trudging on his way, experienced the desolate feeling of the
one who is left behind. Across fields he came to the tiny, thatched
cottage of Miss Rhody Crabbe, who stood on the crumbling doorstep
feeding some little turkeys.

"Come in, David. I suppose you're after M'ri's waist. Thar's jest a
few stitches to take, and I'll hev it done in no time."

He followed her into the little house, which consisted of a sitting
room "with bedroom off," and a kitchen whose floor was sand scoured;
the few pieces of tinware could be used as mirrors. Miss Rhody seated
herself by the open window and began to ply her needle. She did not
sew swiftly and smoothly, in feminine fashion, but drew her
long-threaded needle through the fabric in abrupt and forceful jerks.
A light breeze fluttered in through the window, but it could not
ruffle the wisp-locked hair that showed traces of a water-dipped comb
and was strained back so taut that a little mound of flesh encircled
each root. Her eyes were bead bright and swift moving. Everything
about her, to the aggressively prominent knuckles, betokened energy
and industry. She was attired in a blue calico shortened by many
washings, but scrupulously clean and conscientiously starched. Her
face shone with soap and serenity.

Miss Rhody's one diversion in a busy but monotonous life was news. She
was wretched if she did not receive the latest bulletins; but it was
to her credit that she never repeated anything that might work harm or
mischief. David was one of her chosen confidants. He was a safe
repository of secrets, a sympathetic listener, and a wise suggester.

"I'm glad M'ri's hevin' a blue waist. She looks so sweet in blue. I've
made her clo'es fer years. My, how I hoped fer to make her weddin'
clo'es onct! It wuz a shame to hev sech a good match spiled. It wuz
too bad she hed to hev them two chillern on her hands--"

"And now she has a third," was what David thought he read in her eyes,
and he hastened to assert: "I am going to help all I can, and I'll
soon be old enough to take care of myself."

"Land sakes, David, you'd be wuth more'n yer keep to any one. I
wonder," she said ruminatingly, "if Martin Thorne will wait for her
till Janey's growed up."

"Martin Thorne!" exclaimed David excitedly. "Judge Thorne? Why, was he
the one--"

"He spent his Sunday evenings with her," she asserted solemnly.

In the country code of courtships this procedure was conclusive proof,
and David accepted it as such.

"He wuz jest plain Lawyer Thorne when he wuz keepin' company with
M'ri, but we all knew Mart wuz a comin' man, and M'ri wuz jest proud
of him. You could see that, and he wuz sot on her."

Her work momentarily neglected, Rhody was making little reminiscent
stabs at space with her needle as she spoke.

"'T wuz seven years ago. M'ri wuz twenty-eight and Mart ten years
older. It would hev ben a match as sure as preachin', but Eliza died
and M'ri, she done her duty as she seen it. Sometimes I think folks is
near-sighted about their duty. There is others as is queer-sighted.
Bein' crossed hain't spiled M'ri though. She's kep' sweet through it
all, but when a man don't git his own way, he's apt to curdle. Mart
got sort of tart-tongued and cold feelin'. There wa'n't no reason why
they couldn't a kep' on bein' friends, but Mart must go and make a
fool vow that he'd never speak to M'ri until she sent him word she'd
changed her mind, so he hez ben a-spitin' of his face ever sence. It's
wonderful how some folks do git in their own way, but, my sakes, I
must git to work so you kin take this waist home."

This was David's first glimpse of a romance outside of story-books,
but the name of Martin Thorne evoked disturbing memories. Six years
ago he had acted as attorney to David's father in settling his
financial difficulties, and later, after Peter Dunne's death, the
Judge had settled the small estate. It was only through his efforts
that they were enabled to have the smallest of roofs over their
defenseless heads.

"Miss Rhody," he asked after a long meditation on life in general,
"why didn't you ever marry?"

Miss Rhody paused again in her work, and two little spots of red crept
into her cheeks.

"'Tain't from ch'ice I've lived single, David. I've ben able to take
keer of myself, but I allers hed a hankerin' same as any woman, as is
a woman, hez fer a man, but I never got no chanst to meet men folks. I
wuz raised here, and folks allers hed it all cut out fer me to be an
old maid. When a woman onct gets that name fixt on her, it's all off
with her chances. No man ever comes nigh her, and she can't git out of
her single rut. I never could get to go nowhars, and I wa'n't that
bold kind that makes up to a man fust, afore he gives a sign."

David pondered over this wistful revelation for a few moments, seeking
a means for her seemingly hopeless escape from a life of single
blessedness, for David was a sympathetic young altruist, and felt it
incumbent upon him to lift the burdens of his neighbors. Then he
suggested encouragingly:

"Miss Rhody, did you know that there was a paper that gets you
acquainted with men? That's the way they say Zine Winters got
married."

"Yes, and look what she drawed!" she scoffed. "Bill! I don't know how
they'd live if Zine hadn't a-gone in heavy on hens and turkeys. She
hez to spend her hull time a-traipsin' after them turkeys, and thar
ain't nuthin' that's given to gaddin' like turkeys that I know on,
less 't is Chubbses' hired gal. No, David, it's chance enough when
you git a man you've knowed allers, but a stranger! Well! I want to
know what I'm gittin'. Thar, the last stitch in M'ri's waist is took,
and, David, you won't tell no one what I said about Mart Thorne and
her, nor about my gittin' merried?"

David gave her a reproachful look, and she laughed shamefacedly.

"I know, David, you kin keep a secret. It's like buryin' a thing to
tell it to you. My, this waist'll look fine on M'ri. I jest love the
feel of silk. I'd ruther hev a black silk dress than--"

"A husband," prompted David slyly.

"David Dunne, I'll box yer ears if you ever think again of what I
said. I am allers a-thinkin' of you as if you wuz a stiddy grown man,
and then fust thing I know you're nuthin' but a teasin' boy. Here's
the bundle, and don't you want a nutcake, David?"

"No, thank you, Miss Rhody. I ate a big breakfast."

A fellow feeling had prompted David even in his hungriest days to
refrain from accepting Miss Rhody's proffers of hospitality. He knew
the emptiness of her larder, for though she had been thrifty and
hard-working, she had paid off a mortgage and had made good the
liabilities of an erring nephew.

When David returned he found Miss M'ri in the dairy. It was churning
day, and she was arranging honey-scented, rose-stamped pats of butter
on moist leaves of crisp lettuce.

"David," she asked, looking up with a winning smile, "will you tell me
why you didn't want to go to school?"

The boy's face reddened, but his eyes looked frankly into hers.

"Yes, Miss M'ri."

"Before you tell me, David," she interposed, "I want you to remember
that, from now on, Barnabas and I are your uncle and aunt."

"Well, then, Aunt M'ri," began David, a ring of tremulous eagerness in
his voice, "I can read and write and spell, but I don't know much
about arithmetic and geography. I was ashamed to start in at the baby
class. I thought I'd try and study out of Jud's books this summer."

"That's a good idea, David. We'll begin now. You'll find an elementary
geography in the sitting room on the shelf, and you may study the
first lesson. This afternoon, when my work is done, I'll hear you
recite it."

David took the book and went out into the old orchard. When M'ri went
to call him to dinner he was sprawled out in the latticed shadow of an
apple tree, completely absorbed in the book.

"You have spent two hours on your first lesson, David. You ought to
have it well learned."

He looked at her in surprise.

"I read the whole book through, Aunt M'ri."

"Oh, David," she expostulated, "that's the way Barnabas takes his
medicine. Instead of the prescribed dose after each meal he takes
three doses right after breakfast--so as to get it off his mind and
into his system, he says. We'll just have one short lesson in
geography and one in arithmetic each day. You mustn't do things in
leaps. It's the steady dog trot that lasts, and counts on the long
journey."

When David was on his way to bring Janey from school that afternoon
he was again overtaken by Joe Forbes.

"Dave, I am going to Chicago in a few days, and I shall stop there
long enough to buy a few presents to send back to some of my friends.
Here's my list. Let me see, Uncle Larimy, a new-fangled fishing
outfit; Barnabas, a pipe; Miss M'ri--guess, Dave."

"You're the guesser, you know," reminded David.

"It's a new kind of ice-cream freezer, of course."

"She's going to freeze ice to-night," recalled David anticipatingly.

"Freeze ice! What a paradoxical process! But what I want you to
suggest is something for Miss Rhody--something very nice."

"What she wants most is something you can't get her," thought David,
looking up with a tantalizing little smile. Then her second wish
occurred to him.

"I know something she wants dreadfully; something she never expects to
have."

"That is just what I want to get for her."

"It'll cost a lot."

Joe disposed of that consideration by a munificent wave of the hand.

"What is it?"

"A black silk dress," informed the boy delightedly.

"She shall have it. How many yards does it take, I wonder?"

"We can ask Janey's teacher when we get to school," suggested the
boy.

"So we can. I contrived to find out that Janey's heart is set on a
string of beads--blue beads. I suppose, to be decent, I shall have to
include Jud. What will it be?"

"He wants a gun. He's a good shot, too."

They loitered on the way, discussing Joe's gifts, until they met Janey
and Little Teacher coming toward them hand in hand. David quickly
secured the pail and books before Joe could appropriate them. He
wasn't going to be cut out a second time in one day.

"Miss Williams," asked the young ranchman, "will your knowledge of
mathematics tell me how many yards of black silk I must get to make a
dress, and what kind of fixings I shall need for it?"

"You don't have to know," she replied. "Just go into any department
store and tell them you want a dress pattern and the findings. They
will do the rest."

"Shopping made easy. You shall have your reward now. My shanty boat is
just about opposite here. Suppose the four of us go down to the river
and have supper on board?"

Little Teacher, to whom life was a vista of blackboards dotted with
vacations, thought this would be delightful. A passing child was made
a messenger to the farm, and they continued their way woodward to the
river, where the shanty boat was anchored. Little Teacher set the
table, Joe prepared the meal, while David sat out on deck, beguiling
Janey with wonderful stories.

"This seems beautifully domestic to a cowboy," sighed Joe, looking
around the supper table, his gaze lingering on Little Teacher, who was
dimpling happily. Imaginative David proceeded to weave his third
romance that day, with a glad little beating of the heart, for he had
feared that Joe might be planning to wait for Janey, as the Judge was
doubtless waiting for M'ri.

The children went directly home after supper, Joe accompanying Little
Teacher. Despite the keenness of David's sorrow the day had been a
peaceful, contented one, but when the shadows began to lengthen to
that most lonesome hour of lonesome days, when from home-coming cows
comes the sound of tinkling bells, a wave of longing swept over him,
and he stole away to the orchard. Again, a soft, sustaining little
hand crept into his.

"Don't, Davey," pleaded a caressing voice, "don't make me cry."




CHAPTER IV


Outside of the time allotted for the performance of a wholesome amount
of farm work and the preparation of his daily lessons, David was free
for diversions which had hitherto entered sparingly into his life.
After school hours and on Saturdays the Barnabas farm was the general
rendezvous for all the children within a three-mile radius. The old
woods by the river rang with the gay treble of childish laughter and
the ecstatic barking of dogs dashing in frantic pursuit. There was
always an open sesame to the cookie jar and the apple barrel.

David suffered the common fate of all in having a dark cloud. Jud was
the dark cloud, and his silver lining had not yet materialized.

In height and physical strength Jud was the superior, so he delighted
in taunting and goading the younger boy. There finally came a day when
instinctive self-respect upheld David in no longer resisting the call
to arms. Knowing Barnabas' disapproval of fighting, and with his
mother's parting admonition pricking his conscience, he went into
battle reluctantly and half-heartedly, so the fight was not prolonged,
and Jud's victory came easily. Barnabas, hurrying to the scene of
action, called Jud off and reprimanded him for fighting a smaller boy,
which hurt David far more than did the pummeling he had received.

"What wuz you fighting fer, anyway?" he demanded of David.

"Nothing," replied David laconically, "just fighting."

"Jud picks on Davey all the time," was the information furnished by
the indignant Janey, who had followed her father.

"Well, I forbid either one of you to fight again. Now, Jud, see that
you leave Dave alone after this."

Emboldened by his easily won conquest and David's apparent lack of
prowess, Jud continued his jeering and nagging, but David set his lips
in a taut line of finality and endured in silence until there came the
taunt superlative.

"Your mother was a washerwoman, and your father a convict."

There surged through David a fierce animal hate. With a tight closing
of his hardy young fist, he rushed to the onslaught so swiftly and so
impetuously that Jud recoiled in fear and surprise. With his first
tiger-like leap David had the older boy by the throat and bore him to
the ground, maintaining and tightening his grip as they went down.

"I'll kill you!"

David's voice was steady and calm, but the boy on the ground
underneath felt the very hairs of his head rising at the look in the
dark eyes above his own.

Fortunately for both of them Barnabas was again at hand.

He jerked David to his feet.

"Fightin' again, are you, after I told you not to!"

"It was him, David, that began it. I never struck him," whimpered Jud,
edging away behind his father.

"Did you, David?" asked Barnabas bluntly, still keeping his hold on
the boy, who was quivering with passion.

"Yes."

His voice sounded odd and tired, and there was an ache of bafflement
in his young eyes.

"What fer? What did he do to make you so mad?"

"He said my mother was a washerwoman and my father a convict! Let me
go! I'll kill him!"

With a returning rush of his passion, David struggled in the man's
grasp.

"Wait, Dave, I'll tend to him. Go to the barn, Jud!" he commanded his
son.

Jud quailed before this new, strange note in his father's voice.

"David was fighting. You said neither of us was to fight. 'T ain't
fair to take it out on me."

Fairness was one of Barnabas' fixed and prominent qualities, but Jud
was not to gain favor by it this time.

"Well, you don't suppose I'm a-goin' to lick Dave fer defendin' his
parents, do you? Besides, I'm not a-goin' to lick you fer fightin',
but fer sayin' what you did. I guess you'd hev found out that Dave
could wallop you ef he is smaller and younger."

"He can't!" snarled Jud. "I didn't have no show. He came at me by
surprise."

Barnabas reflected a moment. Then he said gravely:

"When it's in the blood of two fellers to fight, why thar's got to be
a fight, that's all. Thar won't never be no peace until this ere
question's settled. Dave, do you still want to fight him?"

A fierce aftermath of passion gleamed in David's eyes.

"Yes!" he cried, his nostrils quivering.

"And you'll fight fair? Jest to punish--with no thought of killin'?"

"I'll fight fair," agreed the boy.

"I'll see that you do. Come here, Jud."

"I don't want to fight," protested Jud sullenly.

"He's afraid," said David gleefully, every muscle quivering and
straining.

"I ain't!" yelled Jud.

"Come on, then," challenged David, a fierce joy tugging at his
heart.

Jud came with deliberate precision and a swing of his left. He was
heavier and harder, but David was more agile, and his whole heart was
in the fight this time. They clutched and grappled and parried, and
finally went down; first one was on top, then the other. It was the
wage of brute force against elasticity; bluster against valor. Jud
fought in fear; David, in ferocity. At last David bore his oppressor
backward and downward. Jud, exhausted, ceased to struggle.

"Thar!" exclaimed Barnabas, drawing a relieved breath. "I guess you
know how you stand now, and we'll all feel better. You've got all
that's comin' to you, Jud, without no more from me. You can both go to
the house and wash up."

Uncle Larimy had arrived at the finish of the fight.

"What's the trouble, Barnabas?" he asked interestedly, as the boys
walked away.

The explanation was given, but they spoke in tones so low that David
could not overhear any part of the conversation from the men
following him until, as they neared the house, Uncle Larimy said: "I
was afeerd Dave hed his pa's temper snoozin' inside him. Mebby he'd
orter be told fer a warnin'."

"I don't want to say nuthin' about it less I hev to. I'll wait till
the next time he loses his temper."

David ducked his head in the wash basin on the bench outside the door.
After supper, when Barnabas came out on the back porch for his hour of
pipe, he called his young charge to him. Since the fight, David's face
had worn a subdued but contented expression.

"Looks," thought Barnabas, "kinder eased off, like a dog when he licks
his chops arter the taste of blood has been drawed."

"Set down, Dave. I want to talk to you. You done right to fight fer
yer folks, and you're a good fighter, which every boy orter be, but
when I come up to you and Jud I see that in yer face that I didn't
know was in you. You've got an orful temper, Dave. It's a good thing
to hev--a mighty good thing, if you kin take keer of it, but if you
let it go it's what leads to murder. Your pa hed the same kind of
let-loose temper that got him into heaps of trouble."

"What did my father do?" he asked abruptly.

Instinctively he had shrunk from asking his mother this question, and
pride had forbidden his seeking the knowledge elsewhere.

"Some day, when you are older, you will know all about it. But
remember, when any one says anything like what Jud did, that yer ma
wouldn't want fer you to hev thoughts of killin'. You see, you fought
jest as well--probably better--when you hed cooled off a mite and hed
promised to fight fair. And ef you can't wrastle your temper and down
it as you did Jud, you're not a fust-class fighter."

"I'll try," said David slowly, unable, however, to feel much remorse
for his outbreak.

"Jud'll let you alone arter this. You'd better go to bed now. You need
a little extry sleep."

M'ri came into his room when he was trying to mend a long rent in his
shirt. He flushed uncomfortably when her eye fell on the garment. She
took it from him.

"I'll mend it, David. I don't wonder that your patience slipped its
leash, but--never fight when you have murder in your heart."

When she had left the room, Janey's face, pink and fair as a baby
rose, looked in at the door.

"It's very wicked to fight and get so mad, Davey."

"I know it," he acknowledged readily. It was useless trying to make a
girl understand.

There was a silence. Janey still lingered.

"Davey," she asked in an awed whisper, "does it feel nice to be
wicked?"

David shook his head non-committally.




CHAPTER V


The rather strained relations between Jud and David were eased the
next day by the excitement attending the big package Barnabas brought
from town. It was addressed to David, but the removal of the outer
wrapping disclosed a number of parcels neatly labeled, also a note
from Joe, asking him to distribute the presents.

David first selected the parcel marked "Janey" and handed it to her.

"Blue beads!" she cried ecstatically.

"Let me see, Janey," said M'ri. "Why, they're real turquoises and with
a gold clasp! I'll get you a string of blue beads for now, and you can
put these away till you're grown up."

"I didn't tell Joe what to get for you, Aunt M'ri; honest, I didn't,"
disclaimed David, with a laugh, as he handed the freezer to her.

"We'll initiate it this very day, David."

David handed Barnabas his pipe and gave Jud a letter which he opened
wonderingly, uttering a cry of pleasure when he realized the
contents.

"It's an order on Harkness to let me pick out any rifle in his store.
How did he know? Did you tell him, Dave?"

"Yes," was the quiet reply.

"Thank you, Dave. I'll ride right down and get it, and we'll go to the
woods this afternoon and shoot at a mark."

"All right," agreed David heartily.

The atmosphere was now quite cleared by the proposed expenditure of
ammunition, and M'ri experienced the sensation as of one beholding a
rainbow.

David then turned his undivided attention to his own big package,
which contained twelve books, his name on the fly-leaf of each.
Robinson Crusoe, Swiss Family Robinson, Andersen's Fairy Tales,
Arabian Nights, Life of Lincoln, Black Beauty, Oliver Twist, A
Thousand Leagues under the Sea, The Pathfinder, Gulliver's Travels,
Uncle Tom's Cabin, and Young Ranchers comprised the selection. His
eyes gleamed over the enticing titles.

"You shall have some book shelves for your room, David," promised
M'ri, "and you can start your library. Joe has made a good foundation
for one."

His eyes longed to read at once, but there were still the two
packages, marked "Uncle Larimy" and "Miss Rhody," to deliver.

"I can see that Uncle Larimy has a fishing rod, but what do you
suppose he has sent Rhody?" wondered M'ri.

"A black silk dress. I told him she wanted one."

"Take it right over there, David. She has waited almost a lifetime for
it."

"Let me take Uncle Larimy's present," suggested Jud, "and then I'll
ask him to go shooting with us this afternoon."

David amicably agreed, and went across fields to Miss Rhody's.

"Land sakes!" she exclaimed, looking at the parcel. "M'ri ain't
a-goin' to hev another dress so soon, is she?"

"No, Miss Rhody. Some one else is, though."

"Who is it, David?" she asked curiously.

"You see Joe Forbes sent some presents from Chicago, and this is what
he sent you."

"A calico," was her divination, as she opened the package.

"David Dunne!" she cried in shrill, piping tones, a spot of red on
each cheek. "Just look here!" and she stroked lovingly the lustrous
fold of shining silk.

"And if here ain't linings, and thread, and sewing silk, and hooks and
eyes! Why, David Dunne, it can't be true! How did he know--David, you
blessed boy, you must have told him!"

Impulsively she threw her arms about him and hugged him until he
ruefully admitted to himself that she had Jud "beat on the clutch."

"And say, David, I'm a-goin' to wear this dress. I know folks as lets
their silks wear out a-hangin' up in closets. Don't get half as many
cracks when it hangs on yourself. I b'lieve as them Episcopals do in
lettin' yer light shine, and I never wuz one of them as b'lieved in
savin' yer best to be laid out in. Oh, Lord, David, I kin jest hear
myself a-rustlin' round in it!"

"Maybe you'll get a husband now," suggested David gravely.

"Mebby. I'd orter ketch somethin' with this. I never see sech silk.
It's much handsomer than the one Homer Bisbee's bride hed when she
come here from the city. It's orful the way she wastes. Would you
b'lieve it, David, the fust batch of pies she made, she never pricked,
and they all puffed up and bust. David, look here! What's in this
envylope? Forever and way back, ef it hain't a five-doller bill and a
letter. I hain't got my glasses handy. Read it."

"Dear Miss Rhody," read the boy in his musical voice, "silk is none
too good for you, and I want you to wear this and wear it out. If you
don't, I'll never send you another. I thought you might want some more
trimmings, so I send you a five for same. Sincerely yours, Joe."

"I don't need no trimmin's, excep' fifty cents for roochin's."

"I'll tell you what to do, Miss Rhody. When you get your dress made
we'll go into town and you can get your picture taken in the dress and
give it to Joe when he comes back."

"That's jest what I'll do. I never hed my likeness took. David, you've
got an orful quick mind. Is Joe coming home? I thought he callated to
go West."

"Not until fall. He's going to spend the summer in his shanty boat on
the river."

"I'll hurry up and get it made up afore he comes. Tell me what he sent
all your folks."

"Joe's a generous boy, like his ma's folks," she continued, when he
had enumerated their gifts. "I am glad fer him that his pa and his
stepmother was so scrimpin'. David, would you b'lieve it, in that
great big house of the Forbeses thar wa'n't never a tidy on a chair,
and not a picter on the wall! It was mighty lucky for Joe that his
stepmother died fust, so he got all the money."

David hastened home and sought his retreat in the orchard with one of
his books. M'ri, curious to know what his selection had been, scanned
the titles of the remaining eleven volumes.

"Well, who would have thought of a boy's preferring fairy tales!"

David read until dinner time, but spent the afternoon with Uncle
Larimy and Jud in the woods, where they received good instruction in
rifle practice. After supper he settled comfortably down with a book,
from which he was recalled by a plaintive little wail.

"I haven't had a bit of fun to-day, Davey, and it's Saturday, and you
haven't played with me at all!"

The book closed instantly.

"Come on out doors, Janey," he invited.

The sound of childish laughter fell pleasantly on M'ri's ears. She
recalled what Joe Forbes had said about her own children, and an
unbidden tear lingered on her lashes. This little space between
twilight and lamplight was M'ri's favorite hour. In every season but
winter it was spent on the west porch, where she could watch the moon
and the stars come out. Maybe, too, it was because from here she had
been wont to sit in days gone by and watch for Martin's coming. The
time and place were conducive to backward flights of memory, and
M'ri's pictures of the past were most beguiling, except that last one
when Martin Thorne, stern-faced, unrelenting, and vowing that he would
never see her again, had left her alone--to do her duty.

When the children came in she joined them. Janey, flushed and
breathless from play, was curled up on the couch beside David. He put
his arm caressingly about her and began to relate one of Andersen's
fairy tales. M'ri gazed at them tenderly, and was weaving a future
little romance for her two young charges when Janey said petulantly:
"I don't like fairy stories, Davey. Tell a real one."

M'ri noted the disappointment in the boy's eyes as he began the
narrating of a more realistic story.

"David, where did you read that story?" she asked when he had
finished.

"I made it up," he confessed.

"Why, David, I didn't know you had such a talent. You must be an
author when you are a man."

Late that night she saw a light shining from beneath the young
narrator's door.

"I ought to send him to bed," she meditated, "but, poor lad, he has
had so few pleasures and, after all, childhood is the only time for
thorough enjoyment, so why should I put a feather in its path?"

David read until after midnight, and went to bed with a book under his
pillow that he might begin his pastime again at dawn.

After breakfast the next morning M'ri commanded the whole family to
sit down and write their thanks to Joe. David's willing pen flew in
pace with his thoughts as he told of Miss Rhody's delight and his own
revel in book land. Janey made most wretched work of her composition.
She sighed and struggled with thoughts and pencil, which she gnawed at
both ends. Finally she confessed that she couldn't think of anything
more to say. M'ri came to inspect her literary effort, which was
written in huge characters.

"Dear Joe--"

"Oh," commented M'ri doubtfully, "I don't know as you should address
him so familiarly."

"I called him 'Joe' when we rode to school. He told me to," defended
Janey.

"He's just like a boy," suggested David.

So M'ri, silenced, read on: "I thank you for your beyewtifull present
which I cannot have."

"Oh, Janey," expostulated M'ri, laughing; "that doesn't sound very
gracious."

"Well, you said I couldn't have them till I was grown up."

"I was wrong," admitted M'ri. "I didn't realize it then. We have to
see a thing written sometimes to know how it sounds."

"May I wear them?" asked Janey exultingly. "May I put them on now?"

"Yes," consented M'ri.

Janey flew upstairs and came back wearing the adored turquoises, which
made her eyes most beautifully blue.

"Now I can write," she affirmed, taking up her pencil with the
impetus of an incentive. Under the inspiration of the beads around her
neck, she wrote:

  "DEAR JOE:

  "I am wareing the beyewtifull beeds you sent me around my neck.
  Aunt M'ri says they are terkwoyses. I never had such nice beeds
  and I thank you. I wish I cood ride with you agen. Good bye.
  From your frend,

                                                          "JANEY."




CHAPTER VI


The next day being town day, David "hooked up" Old Hundred and drove
to the house. After the butter crock, egg pails, and kerosene and
gasoline cans had been piled in, Barnabas squeezed into the space
beside David. M'ri came out with a memorandum of supplies for them to
get in town. To David she handed a big bunch of spicy, pink June
roses.

"What shall I do with them?" he asked wonderingly.

"Give them to some one who looks as if he needed flowers," she
replied.

"I will," declared the boy interestedly. "I will watch them all and
see how they look at the roses."

At last M'ri had a kindred spirit in her household. Jud would have
sneered, and Janey would not have understood. To Barnabas all flowers
looked alike.

It had come to be a custom for Barnabas to take David to town with him
at least once a week. The trip was necessarily a slow one, for from
almost every farmhouse he received a petition to "do a little errand
in town." As the good nature and accommodating tendency of Barnabas
were well known, they were accordingly imposed upon. He received
commissions of every character, from the purchase of a corn sheller to
the matching of a blue ribbon. He also stopped to pick up a child or
two en route to school or to give a lift to a weary pedestrian whom he
overtook.

While Barnabas made his usual rounds of the groceries, meatmarket,
drug store, mill, feed store, general store, and a hotel where he was
well known, David was free to go where he liked. Usually he
accompanied Barnabas, but to-day he walked slowly up the principal
business street, watching for "one who needed flowers." Many glances
were bestowed upon the roses, some admiring, some careless, and
then--his heart almost stopped beating at the significance--Judge
Thorne came by. He, too, glanced at the roses. His gaze lingered, and
a look came into his eyes that stimulated David's passion for
romance.

"He's remembering," he thought joyfully.

He didn't hesitate even an instant. He stopped in front of the Judge
and extended the flowers.

"Would you like these roses, Judge Thorne?" he asked courteously.

Then for the first time the Judge's attention was diverted from the
flowers.

"Your face is familiar, my lad, but--"

"My name is David Dunne."

"Yes, to be sure, but it must be four years or more since I last saw
you. How's your mother getting along?"

The boy's face paled.

"She died three weeks ago," he answered.

"Oh, my lad," he exclaimed in shocked tones, "I didn't know! I only
returned last night from a long journey. But with whom are you
living?"

"With Aunt M'ri and Uncle Barnabas."

"Oh!"

The impressive silence following this exclamation was broken by the
Judge.

"Why do you offer me these flowers, David?"

"Aunt M'ri picked them and told me to give them to some one who looked
as if they needed flowers."

The Judge eyed him with the keen scrutiny of the trained lawyer, but
the boy's face was non-committal.

"Come up into my office with me, David," commanded the Judge, turning
quickly into a near-by stairway. David followed up the stairs and into
a suite of well-appointed offices.

A clerk looked up in surprise at the sight of the dignified judge
carrying a bouquet of old-fashioned roses and accompanied by a country
lad.

"Good morning, Mathews. I am engaged, if any one comes."

He preceded David into a room on whose outer door was the deterrent
word, "Private."

While the Judge got a pitcher of water to hold the flowers David
crossed the room. On a table near the window was a rack of books
which he eagerly inspected. To his delight he saw a volume of
Andersen's Fairy Tales. Instantly the book was opened, and he was
devouring a story.

"David," spoke the Judge from the other end of the room, "didn't these
roses grow on a bush by the west porch?"

There was no answer.

The Judge, remarking the boy's absorption, came to see what he was
reading.

"Andersen's Fairy Tales! My favorite book. I didn't know that boys
liked fairy stories."

David looked up quickly.

"I didn't know that lawyers did, either."

"Well, I do, David. They are my most delightful diversion."

"Girls don't like fairy stories," mused David. "Anyway, Janey doesn't.
I have to tell true stories to please her."

"Oh, you are a yarner, are you?"

"Yes," admitted David modestly. "Aunt M'ri thinks I will be a writer
when I grow up, but I think I should like to be a lawyer."

"David," asked the Judge abruptly, "did Miss Brumble tell you to give
me those roses?"

With a wild flashing of eyes the Dunne temper awoke, and the boy's
under jaw shot forward.

"No!" he answered fiercely. "She didn't know that I know--"

He paused in mid-channel of such deep waters.

"That you know what?" demanded the Judge in his cross-examining tone.

David was doubtful of the consequences of his temerity, but he stood
his ground.

"I can't tell you what, because I promised not to. Some one was just
thinking out loud, and I overheard."

There was silence for a moment.

"David, I remember your father telling me, years ago, that he had a
little son with a big imagination which his mother fed by telling
stories every night at bedtime."

"Will you tell me," asked David earnestly, "about my father? What was
it he did? Uncle Barnabas told me something about his trouble last
Saturday."

"How did he come to mention your father to you?"

David reddened.

"Jud twitted me about my mother taking in washing and about my father
being a convict, and I knocked him down. I told him I would kill him.
Uncle Barnabas pulled me off."

"And then?"

"Then he let us fight it out."

"And you licked?"

"Yes, sir," replied the boy, with proud modesty.

"You naturally would, with that under jaw, but it's the animal in us
that makes us want to kill, and the man in us should rise above the
animal. I think I am the person to tell you about your father. He had
every reason to make good, but he was unfortunate in his choice of
associates and he acquired some of their habits. He had a violent
temper, and one night when he was--"

"Drunk," supplied David gravely.

"He became angry with one of his friends and tried to kill him. Your
father was given a comparatively short sentence, which he had almost
served when he died. You must guard against your temper and cultivate
patience and endurance--qualities your mother possessed."

It suddenly and overwhelmingly flashed across David what need his
mother must have had for such traits, and he turned away to force back
his tears. The Judge saw the heaving of the slender, square, young
shoulders, and the gray eyes that were wont to look so coldly upon the
world and its people grew soft and surprisingly moist.

"It's past now, David, and can't be helped, but you are going to aim
to be the kind of man your mother would want you to be. You must learn
to put up with Jud's tyranny because his father and his aunt are your
benefactors. I have been away the greater part of the time since your
father's death, or I should have kept track of you and your mother.
Every time you come to town I want you to come up here and report to
me. Will you?"

"Thank you, sir. And I will bring you some more flowers."




CHAPTER VII


"Whar wuz you, Dave, all the time we wuz in town?" asked Barnabas, as
they drove homeward.

"In Judge Thorne's office."

"Judge Thorne's office! What fer?"

"He asked me there, Uncle Barnabas. He was my father's lawyer once,
you know."

"So he wuz. I hed fergot."

"He warned me against my temper, as you did, and he told me--all about
my father."

"I am glad he did, Dave. He wuz the one to tell you."

"He says that every time I come to Lafferton I must come up and report
to him."

"Wal, Dave, it does beat all how folks take to you. Thar wuz Joe
wanted you, and now Mart Thorne's interested. Mebby they could do
better by you than we could. Joe's rich, and the Jedge is well fixed
and almighty smart."

"No," replied David stoutly. "I'd rather stay with you, Uncle
Barnabas. There's something you've got much more of than they have."

"What's that, Dave?" asked Barnabas curiously.

"Horse sense."

Barnabas looked pleased.

"Wal, Dave, I callate to do my best fer you, and thar's one thing I
want _you_ to git some horse sense about right off."

"All right, Uncle Barnabas. What is it?"

"Feedin' on them fairy stories all day. They hain't hullsome diet fer
a boy."

"The Judge reads them," protested David. "He has that same book of
fairy stories that Joe gave me."

"When you've done all the Jedge has, and git to whar you kin afford to
be idle, you kin read any stuff you want ter."

"Can't I read them at all?" asked David in alarm.

"Of course you kin. I meant, I didn't want you stickin' to 'em like a
pup to a root. You're goin' down to the fields to begin work with me
this arternoon, and you won't feel much like readin' to-night. I wuz
lookin' over them books of your'n last night. Thar's one you'd best
start in on right away, and give the fairies a rest."

"Which one?"

"Life of Lincoln. That'll show you what work will do."

"I'll read it aloud to you, Uncle Barnabas."

When they reached the bridge that spanned the river Old Hundred
dropped the little hurrying gait which he assumed in town, and settled
down to his normal, comfortable, country jog.

"Uncle Barnabas," said David thoughtfully, "what is your religion?"

Barnabas meditated.

"Wal, Dave, I don't know as I hev what you might call religion
exackly. I b'lieve in payin' a hundred cents on the dollar, and
a-helpin' the man that's down, and--wal, I s'pose I come as nigh bein'
a Unitarian as anything."

The distribution of the purchases now began. Sometimes the good
housewife, herself, came out to receive the parcels and to hear the
latest news from town. Oftener, the children of the household were
the messengers, for Barnabas' pockets were always well filled with
candy on town days. At one place Barnabas stopped at a barn by the
roadside and surreptitiously deposited a suspicious looking package.
When he was in front of the next farmhouse a man came out with anxious
mien.

"All right, Fred!" hailed Barnabas with a knowing wink. "I was afeerd
you'd not be on the watchout. I left it in the manger."

They did not reach the farm until the dinner hour, and the conversation
was maintained by M'ri and Barnabas on marketing matters. David spent
the afternoon in being initiated in field work. At supper, M'ri asked
him suddenly:

"To whom did you give the flowers, David?"

"I've made a story to it, Aunt M'ri, and I'm going to tell it to
Janey. Then you can hear."

M'ri smiled, and questioned him no further.

When the day was done and the "still hour" had come, Janey and David,
hand in hand, came around the house and sat down at her feet. It was
seldom that any one intruded at this hour, but she knew that David had
come to tell his story.

"Begin, Davey," urged Janey impatiently.

"One day, when a boy was going to town, his aunt gave him a big
bouquet of pink roses. She told him to give them to some one who
looked as if they needed flowers. So when the boy got to town he
walked up Main Street and looked at every one he met. He hoped to see
a little sick child or a tired woman who had no flowers of her own;
but every one seemed to be in a hurry, and very few stopped to look at
flowers or anything else. Those that did look turned away as if they
did not see them, and some seemed to be thinking, 'What beautiful
flowers!' and then forgot them.

"At last he met a tall, stern man dressed in fine clothes. He looked
very proud, but as if he were tired of everything. When he saw the
flowers he didn't turn away, but kept his eyes on them as if they made
him sad and lonesome in thinking of good times that were over. So the
boy asked him if he would not like the flowers. The man looked
surprised and asked the boy what his name was. When he heard it, he
remembered that he had been attorney for the boy's father. He took him
up into an office marked private, and he gave the boy some good
advice, and talked to him about his mother, which made the boy feel
bad. But the man comforted him and told him that every time he came to
town he was to report to him."

M'ri had sat motionless during the recital of this story. At its close
she did not speak.

"That wasn't much of a story. Let's go play," suggested Janey,
relieving the tension.

They were off like a flash. David heard his name faintly called.
M'ri's voice sounded far off, and as if there were tears in it, but he
lacked the courage to return.




CHAPTER VIII


Two important events calendared the next week. The school year ended
and Pennyroyal, the "hired help," who had been paying her annual visit
to her sister, came back to the farm. There are two kinds of
housekeepers, the "make-cleans" and the "keep-cleans." Pennyroyal was
a graduate of both classes. Her ruling passions in life were scrubbing
and "redding" up. On the day of her return, after making onslaught on
house and porches, she attacked the pump, and planned a sand-scouring
siege for the morrow on the barn. In appearance she was a true
exponent of soap and water, and always had the look of being freshly
laundered.

At first Pennyroyal looked with ill favor on the addition that had
been made to the household in her absence, but when David submitted to
the shampooing of his tousled mass of hair, and offered no protest
when she scrubbed his neck, she became reconciled to his presence.

On a "town day" David, carrying a huge bunch of pinks, paid his second
visit to the Judge.

"Did she tell you," asked the tall man, gazing very hard at the
landscape without the open window, "to give these flowers to some one
who needed them?"

There was a perilous little pause. Then there flashed from the boy to
the man a gaze of comprehension.

"She picked them for you," was the response, simply spoken.

The Judge carefully selected a blossom for his buttonhole, and then
proceeded to draw David out. Under the skillful, schooled questioning,
David grew communicative.

"She's always on the west porch after supper." He added naïvely:
"That's the time when Uncle Barnabas smokes on the east porch, Jud
goes off with the boys, and I play with Janey in the lane."

"Thank you, David," acknowledged the Judge gratefully. "You are quite
a bureau of information, and," in a consciously casual tone, "will you
take a note to your aunt? I think I will ride out to the farm
to-night."

David's young heart fluttered, and he went back to the farm invested
with a proud feeling of having assisted the fates. The air was filled
with mystery and an undercurrent of excitement that day. After David
had delivered the auspicious note, a private conference behind closed
doors had been held between M'ri and Barnabas in the "company parlor."
David's shrewd young eyes noted the weakening of the lines of finality
about M'ri's mouth when she emerged from the interview. Throughout the
long afternoon she performed the usual tasks in nervous haste, the
color coming and going in her delicately contoured face.

When she appeared at the supper table she was adorned in white,
brightened by touches of blue at belt and collar. David's young eyes
surveyed her appraisingly and approvingly, and later he effected a
thorough effacing of the family. He obtained from Barnabas permission
for Jud to go to town with the Gardner boys. His next diplomatic move
was to persuade Pennyroyal to go with himself and Janey to Uncle
Larimy's hermit home. When she wavered, he commented on the eclipse of
Uncle Larimy's windows the last time he saw them. That turned the tide
of Pennyroyal's resistance. Equipped with soft linen, a cake of strong
soap, and a bottle of ammonia, she strode down the lane, accompanied
by the children.

The walk proved a trying ordeal for Pennyroyal. She started out at her
accustomed brisk gait, but David loitered and sauntered, Janey of
course setting her pace by his. Pennyroyal, feeling it incumbent upon
herself to keep watch of her young companions, retraced her steps so
often that she covered the distance several times.

At Uncle Larimy's she found such a fertile field for her line of work
that David was quite ready to return when she pronounced her labors
finished. She was really tired, and quite willing to walk home slowly
in the moonlight.

It was very quiet. Here and there a bird, startled from its hiding
place, sought refuge in the higher branches. A pensive quail piped an
answer to the trilling call from the meadows. A tree toad uttered his
lonely, guttural exclamation. The air, freshening with a coming covey
of clouds, swayed the tops of the trees with mournful sound.

David, full of dreams, let his fancy have full play, and he made a
little story of his own about the meeting of the lovers. He pictured
the Judge riding down the dust-white road as the sunset shadows grew
long. He knew the exact spot--the last bit of woodland--from where
Martin, across level-lying fields, could obtain his first glimpse of
the old farmhouse and porch. His moving-picture conceit next placed
M'ri, dressed in white, with touches of blue, on the west porch. He
had decided that in the Long Ago Days she had been wont to wear blue,
which he imagined to be the Judge's favorite color. Then he caused the
unimpressionable Judge to tie his horse to the hitching post at the
side of the road and walk between the hedges of sweet peas that
bordered the path. Their pink and white sweetness was the trumpet
call sounding over the grave of the love of his youth. (David had read
such a passage in a book at Miss Rhody's and thought it very fine and
applicable.) His active fancy took Martin Thorne around the house to
the west porch. The white figure arose, and in the purple-misted
twilight he saw the touches of blue, and his heart lighted.

"Marie!"

The old name, the name he had given her in his love-making days, came
to his lips. (David couldn't make M'ri fit in with the settings of his
story, so he re-christened her.) She came forward with outstretched
hand and a gentle manner, but at the look in his eyes as he uttered
the old name, with the caressing accent on the first syllable, she
understood. A deep sunrise color flooded her face and neck.

"Martin!" she whispered as she came to him.

David threw back his head and shut his eyes in ecstatic bliss. He was
rudely roused from his romantic weaving by the sound of Barnabas'
chuckle as they came to the east porch.

"You must a washed every one of Larimy's winders!"

"Yes," replied Janey, "and she mopped his floors, washed and
clean-papered the shelves, and wanted to scrub the old gray horse."

"Pennyroyal," exclaimed Barnabas gravely, "I wonder you ain't
waterlogged!"

"Pennyroyal'd rather be clean than be President," averred David.

"Where's M'ri?" demanded Pennyroyal, ignoring these thrusts.

"On the west porch, entertaining company," remarked Barnabas.

"Who?"

Pennyroyal never used a superfluous word. Joe Forbes said she talked
like telegrams.

Barnabas removed his pipe from his mouth, and paused to give his words
greater dramatic force.

"Mart Thorne!"

The effect was satisfactory.

Pennyroyal stood as if petrified for a moment. Than she expressed her
feelings.

"Hallelujah!"

Her tone made the exclamation as impressive as a benediction.

M'ri visited the bedside of each of her charges that night. Jud and
Janey were in the land of dreams, but David was awake, expecting her
coming. There was a new tenderness in her good-night kiss.

"Aunt M'ri," asked the boy, looking up with his deep, searching eyes
and a suspicion of a smile about his lips, "did you and Judge Thorne
talk over my education? He said that he was going to speak to you
about it."

Her eyes sparkled.

"David, the Judge is coming to dinner Sunday. We will talk it over
with you then."

"Aunt M'ri," a little note of wistfulness chasing the bantering look
from his eyes, "you aren't going to leave us now?"

"Not for a year, David," she said, a soft flush coming to her face.

"He's waited seven," thought David, "so one more won't make so much
difference. Anyway, we need a year to get used to it."

After all, David was only a boy. His flights of romantic fancy
vanished in remembrance of the blissful certainty that there would be
ice cream for dinner on Sunday next and on many Sundays thereafter.




CHAPTER IX


The little trickle of uneven days was broken one morning by a message
which was brought by the "hired man from Randall's."

"We've got visitors from the city tew our house," he announced. "They
want you to send Janey over tew play with their little gal."

Befitting the honor of the occasion, Janey was attired in her
blue-sprigged muslin and allowed to wear the turquoises. David drove
her to Maplewood, the pretentious home of the Randalls, intending to
call for her later. When they came to the entrance of the grounds at
the end of a long avenue of maples a very tiny girl, immaculate in
white, with hair of gold and eyes darkly blue, came out from among the
trees. She regarded David with deep, grave eyes as he stepped from the
wagon to open the gate.

"You've come to play with me," she stated in a tone of assurance.

"I've brought Janey to play with you," he rejoined, indicating his
little companion. "If you'll get in the wagon, I'll drive you up to
the house."

She held up her slender little arms to him, and David felt as if he
were lifting a doll.

"My name in Carey Winthrop. What is yours?" she demanded of Janey as
they all rode up the shaded, graveled road.

"Janey Brumble," replied the visitor, gaining ease from the
ingenuousness of the little girl and from the knowledge that she was
older than her hostess.

"And he's your brother?" indicating David.

"He's my adopted brother," said Janey; "he's David Dunne."

"I wish I had a 'dopted brother," sighed the little girl, eying David
wistfully.

David drove up to the side entrance of the large, white-columned,
porticoed house, on the spacious veranda of which sat a fair-haired
young woman with luminous eyes and smiling mouth. The smile deepened
as she saw the curiously disfigured horse ambling up to the stone
step.

"Whoa, Old Hundred!" commanded David, whereupon the smile became a
rippling laugh. David got out, lifted the little girl to the ground
very carefully, and gave a helping hand to the nimble, independent
Janey.

"Mother," cried Carey delightedly, "this is Janey and her 'dopted
brother David."

David touched his cap gravely in acknowledgment of the introduction.
He had never heard his name pronounced as this little girl spoke it,
with the soft "a." It sounded very sweet to him.

"I'll drive back for you before sundown, Janey," said David, preparing
to climb into the wagon.

"No," objected Carey, regarding him with apprehension, "I want you to
stay and play with me. Tell him to stay, mother."

There was a regal carriage to the little head and an imperious
note--the note of an only child--in her voice.

"Maybe David has other things to do than to play with little girls,"
said her mother, "but, David, if you can stay, I wish you would."

"I should like to stay," replied David earnestly, "but they expect me
back, and Old Hundred is needed in the field."

"Luke can drive your horse back, and we will see that you and Janey
ride home."

So Carey, with a hand to each of her new playmates, led them across
the driveway to the rolling stretch of shaded lawn. The lady watched
David as he submitted to be driven as a horse by the little girls and
then constituted himself driver to his little team of ponies as he
called them. Later, when they raced to the meadow, she saw him hold
Janey back that Carey might win. Presently the lady was joined by her
husband.

"Where is Carey?" he asked.

"She is having great sport with a pretty little girl and a guardian
angel of a boy. Here they come!"

They were trooping across the lawn, the little girls adorned with
blossom wreaths which David had woven for them.

"May we go down to the woods--the big woods?" asked Carey.

"It's too far for you to walk, dear," remonstrated her mother.

"David says he'll draw me in my little cart."

"Who is it that was afraid to go into the big woods, and thought it
was a forest filled with wild beasts and scary things?" demanded Mr.
Winthrop.

The earnest eyes fixed on his were not at all abashed.

"With him, with David," she said simply, "I would have no afraidments."

"Afraidments?" he repeated perplexedly. "I am not sure I understand."

"Don't tease, Arthur; it's a very good word," interposed Mrs. Winthrop
quickly. "It seems to have a different meaning from fear."

"Come up here, David," bade Mr. Winthrop, "and let me see what there
is in you to inspire one with no 'afraidments'."

The boy came up on the steps, and did not falter under the keen but
good-humored gaze.

"Do you like to play with little girls, David?"

"I like to play with these little girls," admitted David.

"And what do you like to do besides that?"

"I like to shoot."

"Oh, a hunter?"

"No; I like to shoot at a mark."

"And what else?"

"I like to read, and fish, and swim, and--"

"Eat ice cream!" finished Janey roguishly, showing her dimples.

The man caught her up in his arms.

"You are a darling, and I wish my little girl had such rosy cheeks.
David, can you show me where there is good fishing?"

"Uncle Larimy can show you the best places. He knows where the bass
live, and how to coax them to bite."

"And will you take me to this wonderful person to-morrow?"

"Yes, sir."

Carey now came out of the hall with her cart, and David drew her
across the lawn, Janey dancing by his side. Down through the meadows
wound a wheel-tracked road leading to a patch of dense woods which, to
a little girl with a big imagination, could easily become a wild
forest infested with all sorts of nameless terrors--terrors that make
one draw the bedclothes snugly over the head at night. She gave a
little frightened cry as they came into the cool, olive depths.

"I am afraid, David. Take me!"

He lifted her to his shoulder, and her soft cheek nestled against his
face.

"Now you are not afraid," he said persuasively.

"No; but I would be if you put me down."

They went farther into the oak depths, until they came to a fallen
tree where they rested. Janey, investigating the forestry, finally
discovered a bush with slender red twigs.

"Oh," she cried, "now David will show you what beautiful things he can
make for us."

"I have no pins," demurred David.

"I have," triumphantly producing a paper of the needful from her
pocket. "I always carry them now."

David broke up the long twigs into short pieces, from which he
skillfully fashioned little chairs and tables, discoursing the while
to Carey on the beauty and safety of the woods. Finally Carey
acquired courage to hunt for wild flowers, though her hand remained
close in David's clasp.

When they returned to the house Carey gave a glowing account of the
expedition.

"Sit down on the steps and rest, children," proposed Mrs. Winthrop,
"while Lucy prepares a little picnic dinner for you."

"What will we do now, David?" appealed Carey, when they were seated on
the porch.

"You mustn't do anything but sit still," admonished her mother.
"You've done more now than you are used to doing in one day."

"Davey will tell us a story," suggested Janey.

"Yes, please, David," urged Carey, coming to him and resting her eyes
on his inquiringly, while her little hand confidently sought his knee.
Instinctively and naturally his fingers closed upon it.

Embarrassed as he was at having a strange audience, he could not
resist the child's appeal.

"She'll like the kind that you don't," he said musingly to Janey, "the
kind about fairies and princes."

"Yes," rejoined Carey.

So he fashioned a tale, partly from recollections of Andersen but
mostly from his own fancy. As his imagination kindled, he forgot where
he was. Inspired by the spellbound interest of the dainty little girl
with the worshiping eyes, he achieved his masterpiece.

"Upon my word," exclaimed Mr. Winthrop, "you are a veritable
Scheherazade! You didn't make up that story yourself?"

"Only part of it," admitted David modestly.

When he and Janey started for home David politely delivered M'ri's
message of invitation for Carey to come to the farm on the morrow to
play.

"It is going to be lovely here," said the little girl happily. "And we
are going to come every summer."

Janey kissed her impulsively. "Good-by, Carey."

"Good-by, Janey. Good-by, David."

"Good-by," he returned cheerily. Looking back, he saw her lips
trembling. His gaze turned in perplexity to Mrs. Winthrop, whose eyes
were dancing. "She expects you to bid her good-by the way Janey did,"
she explained.

"Oh!" said David, reddening, as two baby lips of scarlet were lifted
naturally and expectantly to his.

As they drove away, the light feet of the horse making but little
sound on the smooth road, Mrs. Winthrop's clear treble was wafted
after them.

"One can scarcely believe that his father was a convict and his mother
a washerwoman."

A lump came into the boy's throat. Janey was very quiet on the way
home. When they were alone she said to him, with troubled eyes:

"Davey, is Carey going to be your sweetheart?"

His laugh was reassuring.

"Why, Janey, I am just twice her age."

"She is like a little doll, isn't she, David?"

"No; like a little princess."

The next morning Little Teacher came to show them her present from
Joe.

"I am sure he chose a camera so I could take your pictures to send to
him," she declared.

"Miss Rhody wants her picture taken in the black silk Joe gave her. If
you will take it, she won't have to spend the money he sent her," said
the thoughtful David.

Little Teacher was very enthusiastic over this proposition, and
offered to accompany him at once to secure the picture. Miss Rhody was
greatly excited over the event. Ever since the dress had been finished
she had been a devotee at the shrine of two hooks in her closet from
which was suspended the long-coveted garment, waiting for an occasion
that would warrant its débût. She nervously dressed for the
"likeness," for which she assumed her primmest pose. A week later
David sent Joe a picture of Miss Rhody standing stiff and straight on
her back porch and arrayed, with all the glory of the lilies of the
field, in her new silk.




CHAPTER X


When the hot, close-cropped fields took on their first suggestion
of autumn and a fuller note was heard in the requiem of the
songbirds, when the twilights were of purple and the morning skies
delicately mackereled in gray, David entered the little, red, country
schoolhouse. M'ri's tutelage and his sedulous application to Jud's
schoolbooks saved him from the ignominy of being classified with the
younger children.

When he sat down to the ink-stained, pen-scratched desk that was to be
his own, when he made compact piles of his new books and placed in the
little groove in front of the inkwell his pen, pencils, and ruler, he
turned to Little Teacher such a glowing face of ecstasy that she was
quite inspired, and her sympathies and energies were at once enlisted
in the cause of David's education.

It was the beginning of a new world for him. He studied with a
concentration that made him oblivious to all that occurred about him,
and he had to be reminded of calls to recitations by an individual
summons. He fairly overwhelmed Little Teacher by his voracity for
learning and a perseverance that vanquished all obstacles. He soon
outstripped his class, and finally his young instructress was forced
to bring forth her own textbooks to satisfy his avidity. He devoured
them all speedily, and she then applied to the Judge for fuel from his
library to feed her young furnace.

"He takes to learning as naturally as bees to blossoms," she
reported.

"He must ease off," warned Barnabas. "Young hickory needs plenty of
room for full growth."

"No," disagreed the Judge, "young hickory is as strong as wrought
iron. He's going to have a clear, keen mind to argue law cases."

"I think not," said M'ri. "You forget another quality of young
hickory. No other wood burns with such brilliancy. David is going to
be an author."

"I am afraid," wrote Joe, "that Dave won't be a first-class ranchman.
He must be plum locoed with dreams."

This prognostication reached David's ears.

"Without dreams," he argued to Barnabas, "one would be like the
pigs."

"Wal, now, Dave, mebby pigs dream. They sartain sleep a hull lot."

David laughed appreciatively.

"Dave," pursued Barnabas, "they're all figgerin' on your futur, and
they're a-figgerin' wrong. Joe thinks you'll take to ranchin'. You
may--fer a spell. M'ri thinks you may write books. You may do even
that--fer a spell. The Jedge counts on yer takin' to the law like a
duck does to water. You may, but law larnin', cow punchin', and story
writin' 'll jest be steppin' stuns to what I know you air goin' ter
be, and what I know is in you ter be."

"What in the world is that, Uncle Barnabas?" asked David in surprise.
"A farmer?"

"Farmer, nuthin'!" scoffed Barnabas. "Yer hain't much on farmin',
Dave, though I will say yer furrers is allers straight, like
everythin' else you do. Yer straight yerself. No! young hickory can
bend without breakin', and thar's jest one thing I want fer you to
be."

"What?" persisted the boy.

Barnabas whispered something.

The blood of the young country boy went like wine through his veins;
his heart leaped with a big and mighty purpose.

"Now, remember, Dave," cautioned Barnabas, "what all work and no play
done to Jack. You git yer lessons perfect, and recite them, and read a
leetle of an evenin'; the rest of the time I want yer to get out and
cerkilate."

November with its call to quiet woods came on, and David was eager to
"cerkilate." He became animated with the spirit of sport. Red-letter
Saturdays were spent with Uncle Larimy, and the far-away echo of the
hunter's bullet and the scudding through the woods of startled game
became new, sweet music to his ears. Rifle in hand, with dog shuffling
at his heels or plunging ahead in search of game, the world was his.
Life was very full and happy, save for the one inevitable sprig of
bitter--Jud! The big bully of a boy had learned that David was his
equal physically and his superior mentally, but the fear of David and
of David's good standing kept him from venturing out in the open; so
from cover he sought by all the arts known to craftiness to harass the
younger boy, whose patience this test tried most sorely.

One day when Little Teacher had given him a verbose definition of the
word "pestiferous," David looked at her comprehendingly. "Like Jud,"
he murmured.

Many a time his young arms ached to give Jud another thrashing, but
his mother's parting injunction restrained him.

"If only," he sighed, "Jud belonged to some one else!"

He vainly sought to find the hair line that divided his sense of
gratitude and his protection of self-respect.

Winter followed, and the farm work droned. It was a comfortable, cozy
time, with breakfast served in the kitchen on a table spread with a
gay, red cloth. Pennyroyal baked griddle-sized cakes, delivering them
one at a time direct from the stove to the consumer. The early hour
of lamplight made long evenings, which were beguiled by lesson books
and story-books, by an occasional skating carnival on the river, a
coasting party at Long Hill, or a "surprise" on some hospitable
neighbor.

One morning he came into school with face and eyes aglow with
something more than the mere delight of living. It meant mischief,
pure and simple, but Little Teacher was not always discerning. She
gave him a welcoming smile of sheer sympathy with his mood. She didn't
smile, later, when the schoolroom was distracted by the sound of
raucous laughter, feminine screams, and a fluttering of skirts as the
girls scrambled to standing posture in their chairs. Astonished, she
looked for the cause. The cause came her way, and the pupils had a
fresh example of the miracles wrought by a mouse, for Little Teacher,
usually the personification of dignity and repose, screamed lustily
and scudded chairward with as much rapidity as that displayed by the
scurrying mouse as it chased for the corner and disappeared through a
knothole.

As soon as the noiseful glee had subsided, Little Teacher sought to
recover her prided self-possession. In a voice resonant with
sternness, she commanded silence, gazing wrathfully by chance at
little Tim Wiggins.

"'T was David done it," he said in deprecating self-defense, imagining
himself accused.

"David Dunne," demanded Little Teacher, "did you bring that mouse to
school?"

"He brung it and let it out on purpose," informed Tim eagerly.

Little Teacher never encouraged talebearing, but she was so
discomfited by the exposure of the ruling weakness peculiar to her
sex that she decided to discipline her favorite pupil upon his
acknowledgment of guilt.

"You may bring your books and sit on the platform," she ordered
indignantly.

David did not in the least mind his assignment to so prominent a
position, but he did mind Little Teacher's attitude toward him
throughout the day. He sought to propitiate her by coming to her
assistance in many little tasks, but she persistently ignored his
overtures. He then ventured to seek enlightenment regarding his
studies, but she coldly informed him he could remain after school to
ask his questions.

David began to feel troubled, and looked out of the window for
an inspiration. He found one in the form of big, brawny, Jim
Block--"Teacher's Jim," as the school children all called him.

"There goes Teacher's Jim," sang David, _soto voce_.

The shot told. For the second time that day Little Teacher showed
outward and visible signs of an inward disturbance. With a blush she
turned quickly to the window and watched with expressive eyes the
stalwart figure striding over the rough-frozen road.

In an instant, however, she had recalled herself to earth, and David's
dancing eyes renewed her hostility toward him. Toward the end of the
day she began to feel somewhat appeased by his docility and evident
repentance. Her manner had perceptibly changed by the time the closing
exercise began. This was the writing of words on the blackboard for
the pupils to use in sentences. She pointed to the first word,
"income."

"Who can make a sentence and use that word correctly?" she asked.

"Do call on Tim," whispered David. "He so loves to be the first to
tell anything."

She smiled her appreciation of Tim's prominent characteristic, and
looked at the youngster, who was wringing his hand in an agony of
eagerness. She gave him the floor, and he jumped to his feet in
triumph, yelling:

"In come a mouse!"

This was too much for David's composure, and he gave way to an
infectious fit of laughter, in which the pupils joined.

Little Teacher found the allusion personal and uncomfortable. She at
once assumed her former distant mien, demanding David's presence after
school closed.

"You have no gratitude, David," she stated emphatically.

The boy winced, and his eyes darkened with concern, as he remembered
his mother's parting injunction.

Little Teacher softened slightly.

"You are sorry, aren't you, David?" she asked gently.

He looked at her meditatively.

"No, Teacher," he answered quietly.

She flushed angrily.

"David Dunne, you may go home, and you needn't come back to school
again until you tell me you are sorry."

David took his books and walked serenely from the room. He went home
by the way of Jim Block's farm.

"Hullo, Dave!" called Big Jim, who was in the barnyard.

"Hello, Jim! I came to tell you some good news. You said if you were
only sure there was something Teacher was afraid of, you wouldn't feel
so scared of her."

"Well," prompted Jim eagerly.

"I thought I'd find out for you, so I took a mouse to school and let
it loose."

"Gee!"

David then related the occurrences of the morning, not omitting the
look in Little Teacher's eyes when she beheld Jim from the window.

"I'll hook up this very night and go to see her," confided Jim.

"Be sure you do, Jim. If you find your courage slipping, just remember
that you owe it to me, because she won't let me come back to school
unless she knows why I wasn't sorry."

"I give you my word, Dave," said Jim earnestly.

The next morning Little Teacher stopped at the Brumble farm.

"I came this way to walk to school with you and Janey," she said
sweetly and significantly to David.

When they reached the road, and Janey had gone back to get her sled,
Little Teacher looked up and caught the amused twinkle in David's eye.
A wave of conscious red overspread her cheeks.

"Must I say I am sorry now?" he asked.

"David Dunne, there are things you understand which you never learned
from books."




CHAPTER XI


Late spring brought preparations for M'ri's wedding. Rhody Crabbe's
needle and fingers flew in rapturous speed, and there was likewise
engaged a seamstress from Lafferton. Rhody had begged for the making
of the wedding gown, and when it was finished David went to fetch it
home.

"It's almost done, David, and you tell M'ri the last stitch was a
loveknot. It's most a year sence you wuz here afore, a-waitin' fer her
blue waist tew be finished. Remember, don't you, David?"

He remembered, and as she stitched he sat silently reviewing that
year, the comforts received, the pleasures pursued, and, best of all,
the many things he had learned, but the recollection that a year ago
his mother had been living brought a rush of sad memories and blotted
out happier thoughts.

"I wish yer ma could hev seen Mart and M'ri merried. She was orful
disapp'inted when they broke off."

There was no reply. Rhody's sharp little eyes, in upward glance, spied
the trickling tear; she looked quickly away and stitched in furious
haste.

"But, my!" she continued, as if there had been no pause, "how glad she
would be to know 't was you as fetched it around."

David looked up, diverted and inquiring.

"Yes; I learnt it from M'ri. She told me about the flowers you give
him. I thought it was jest sweet in you, David. You done good work
thar."

"Miss Rhody," said David earnestly, "maybe some day I can get you a
sweetheart."

"'T ain't no use, David," she sighed. "No one wants a plain critter
like me."

"Lots of them don't marry for looks," argued David sagely. "Besides,
you look fine in your black silk, and your hair crimped. Joe thinks
your picture is great. He's got it on a shelf over his fireplace at
the ranch."

"Most likely some cowboy'll see it and lose his heart," laughed Miss
Rhody, "but thar, the weddin' dress is all done. You go home and quit
thinkin' about gittin' me a man. I ain't ha'nted by the thought of
endin' single."

Great preparations for the wedding progressed at the Brumble farm. For
a week Pennyroyal whipped up eggs and sugar, and David ransacked the
woods for evergreens and berries with which to decorate the big barn,
where the dance after the wedding was to take place.

The old farmhouse was filled to overflowing on the night of the
wedding. After the ceremony, Miss Rhody, resplendent in the black silk
and waving hair loosed from the crimping pins that had confined it for
two days and nights, came up to David.

"My, David, I've got the funniest all over feelin' from seein' Mart
and M'ri merried! I was orful afeerd I'd cry."

"Sit down, Miss Rhody," said David, gallantly bringing her a chair.

"Didn't M'ri look perfeckly beyewtiful?" she continued, after
accomplishing the pirouette that prevented creases. "And Mart, he
looked that proud, and solemn too. It made me think of that gal when
she spoke 'Curfew shall not ring tewnight' at the schoolhouse. Every
one looks fine. I hain't seen Barnabas so fussed up sence Libby Sukes'
funyral. It makes him look real spry. And whoever got Larimer Sasser
to perk up and put on a starched shirt!"

"I think," confided David, "that Penny got after him. She had him in a
corner when he came, and she tied his necktie so tight I was afraid
she would choke him."

"Look at old Miss Pankey, David. She, as rich as they make 'em, and
a-wearin' that old silk! It looks as ef it hed bin hung up fer you and
Jud to shoot at. Ain't she a-glarin' and a-sniffin' at me, though?
Say, David, you write Joe that if M'ri did look the purtiest of any
one that my dress cost more'n any one's here, and showed it, too. I
hope thar'll be a lot of occasions to wear it to this summer. M'ri is
a-goin' to give a reception when she gits back from her tower, and
that'll be one thing to wear it at. Ain't Jud got a mean look? He's as
crooked as a dog's hind leg. But, say, David, that's a fine suit
you're a-wearin'. You look handsome. Thar ain't a stingy hair on
Barnabas' head. He's doin' jest as good by you as he is by Jud. Don't
little Janey look like an angel in white, and them lovely beads Joe
give her? I can't think of nothin' else but that little Eva you read
me about. I shouldn't wonder a bit, David, if I come to yer and
Janey's weddin' yet!" she said, as Janey came dancing up to them.

A slow flush mounted to his forehead, but Janey laughed merrily.

"I've promised Joe I'd wait for him," she said roguishly.

"She's only foolin' and so wuz he," quickly spoke Miss Rhody, seeing
the hurt look in David's eyes. "Barnabas," she asked, stopping him as
he passed, "you air a-goin' to miss M'ri turrible. You could never
manige if it wa'n't fer Penny. Won't she hev the time of her life
cleanin' up after this weddin'? She'll enjoy it more'n she did gettin'
ready fer it."

"I hope Penny won't go to gittin' merried--not till Janey's growed
up."

"David's a great help to you, too, Barnabas."

"Dave! I don't know how I ever got along afore he came. He's so
willin' and so honest. He's as good as gold. Only fault he's got is a
quick temper. He's doin' purty fair with it, though. If only Jud--"

He stopped, with a sigh, and Rhody hastened to change the subject.

"You're a-lookin' spry to-night, Barnabas. I hain't seen you look so
spruce in a long time."

"You look mighty tasty yerself, Rhody."

This interchange of compliments was interrupted by the announcement of
supper.

"I never set down to sech a repast," thought Miss Rhody. "I'm glad I
didn't feed much to-day. I don't know whether to take chickin twice,
or to try all them meltin', flaky lookin' pies. And jest see them
layer cakes!"

After supper adjournment was made to the barn, where the fiddles were
already swinging madly. Every one caught the spirit, and even Miss
Rhody finally succumbed to Barnabas' insistence. Pennyroyal captured
Uncle Larimy, and when Janey whirled away in the arms of a
schoolmate, David, who had never learned to dance, stood isolated. He
felt lonely and depressed, and recalled the expression in which Joe
Forbes had explained life after he had acquired a stepmother. "I was
always on the edge of the fireside," he had said.

"Dave," expostulated Uncle Barnabas, as soon as he could get his
breath after the last dance, "you'd better eddicate yer heels as well
as yer head. It's unnateral fer a colt and a boy not to kick up their
heels. You don't never want to be a looker-on at nuthin' excep' from
ch'ice. You'd orter be a stand-in on everything that's a-goin' instead
of a stand-by. The stand-bys never git nowhar."




PART TWO

CHAPTER I


David Dunne at eighteen was graduated from the high school in
Lafferton after five colorless years in which study and farm work
alternated. Throughout this period he had continued to incur the
rancor of Jud, whose youthful scrapes had gradually developed into
brawls and carousals. The Judge periodically extricated him from
serious entanglements, and Barnabas continued optimistic in his
expectations of a time when Jud should "settle." On one occasion Jud
sneeringly accused David of "working the old man for a share in the
farm," and taunted him with the fact that he was big enough and strong
enough to hustle for himself without living on charity. David started
on a tramp through the woods to face the old issue and decide his
fate. He had then one more year before he could finish school and
carry out a long-cherished dream of college.

He was at a loss to know just where to turn at the present time for a
home where he could work for his board and attend school. The Judge
and M'ri had gone abroad; Joe was on his ranch; the farmers needed no
additional help.

He had been walking swiftly in unison with his thoughts, and when he
came out of the woods into the open he was only a mile downstream from
town. Upon the river bank stood Uncle Larimy, skillfully swirling his
line.

"Wanter try yer luck, Dave?"

"I have no luck just now, Uncle Larimy," replied the boy sadly.

Uncle Larimy shot him a quick, sidelong glance.

"Then move on, Dave, and chase arter it. Thar's allers luck somewhar.
Jest like fishin'. You can't set in one spot and wait for luck tew
come to you like old Zeke Foss does. You must keep a-castin'."

"I don't know where to cast, Uncle Larimy."

Uncle Larimy pondered. He knew that Jud was home, and he divined
David's trend of thought.

"You can't stick to a plank allers, Dave, ef you wanter amount tew
anything. Strike out bold, and swim without any life presarvers. You
might jest as well be a sleepy old cat in a corner as to go
smoothsailin' through life."

"I feel that I have got to strike out, and at once, Uncle Larimy, but
I don't just know where to strike."

"Wal, Dave, it's what we've all got to find out fer ourselves. It's a
leap in the dark like, and ef you don't land nowhere, take another
leap, and keep a-goin' somewhar."

David wended his way homeward, pondering over Uncle Larimy's
philosophy. When he went with Barnabas to do the milking that night he
broached the subject of leaving the farm.

"I know how Jud feels about my being here, Uncle Barnabas."

"What did he say to you?" asked the old man anxiously.

"Nothing. I overheard a part of your conversation. He is right. And if
I stay here, he will run away to sea. He told the fellows in Lafferton
he would."

"You are going to stay, Dave."

"You won't like to think you drove your son away. If he gets into
trouble, both you and I will feel we are to blame."

"Dave, I see why the Jedge hez got it all cut out fer you to be a
lawyer. You've got the argyin' habit strong. But you can't argue me
into what I see is wrong. This is the place fer you to be, and Jud 'll
hev to come outen his spell."

"Then let me go away until he does. You must give him every chance."

"Where'll you go?" asked Barnabas curiously.

"I don't know, yet," said the boy, "but I'll think out a plan
to-night."

It was Jud, after all, who cut the Gordian knot, and made one of his
welcome disappearances, which lasted until David was ready to start in
college. His savings, that he had accumulated by field work in the
summers and a very successful poultry business for six years, netted
him four hundred dollars.

"One hundred dollars for each year," he thought exultantly. "That
will be ample with the work I shall find to do."

Then he made known to his friends his long-cherished scheme of working
his way through college. The Judge laughed.

"Your four hundred dollars, David, will barely get you through the
first year. After that, I shall gladly pay your expenses, for as soon
as you are admitted to the bar you are to come into my office, of
course."

David demurred.

"I shall work my way through college," he said firmly.

He next told Barnabas of his intention and the Judge's offer which he
had declined.

"I'm glad you refused, Dave. You'll only be in his office till you're
ripe fer what I kin make you. I've larnt that the law is a good
foundation as a sure steppin' stone tew it, so you kin hev a taste of
it. But the Jedge ain't a-goin' to pay yer expenses."

"I don't mean that he shall," replied David. "I want to pay my own
way."

"I'm a-goin' to send you tew college and send you right. No starvin'
and garret plan fer you. I've let Joe and the Jedge do fer you as much
as they're a-goin' to, but you're mine from now on. It's what I'd do
fer my own son if he cared fer books, and you're as near to me ez ef
you were my son."

"It's too much, Uncle Barnabas."

"And, David," he continued, unheeding the interruption, "I hope you'll
really be my son some day."

A look of such exquisite happiness came into the young eyes that
Barnabas put out his hand silently. In the firm hand-clasp they both
understood.

"I am not going to let you help me through college, though, Uncle
Barnabas. It has always been my dream to earn my own education. When
you pay for anything yourself, it seems so much more your own than
when it's a gift."

"Let him, Barnabas," again counseled Uncle Larimy. "Folks must feed
diff'rent. Thar's the sweet-fed which must allers hev sugar, but
salt's the savor for Dave. He's the kind that flourishes best in the
shade."

Janey wrote to Joe of David's plan, and there promptly came a check
for one thousand dollars, which David as promptly returned.




CHAPTER II


A few days before the time set for his departure David set out on a
round of farewell visits to the country folk. It was one of those
cold, cheerless days that intervene between the first haze of autumn
and the golden glow of October. He had never before realized how
lonely the shiver of wind through the poplars could sound. Two
innovations had been made that day in the country. The rural delivery
carrier, in his little house on wheels, had made his first delivery,
and a track for the new electric-car line was laid through the sheep
meadow. This inroad of progress upon the sanctity of their seclusion
seemed sacrilegious to David, who longed to have lived in the olden
time of log houses, with their picturesque open fires and candle
lights. Following some vague inward call, he went out of his way to
ride past the tiny house he had once called home, and which in all his
ramblings he had steadfastly avoided. He had heard that the place had
passed into the hands of a widow with an only son, and that they had
purchased surrounding land for cultivation. He had been glad to hear
this, and had liked to fancy the son caring for his mother as he
himself would have cared for his mother had she lived.

As he neared the little nutshell of a house his heart beat fast at the
sight of a woman pinning clothes to the line. Her fingers, stiff and
swollen, moved slowly. The same instinct that had guided him down this
road made him dismount and tie his horse. The old woman came slowly
down the little path to meet him.

"I am David Dunne," he said gently, "and I used to live here. I wanted
to come to see my old home once more."

He thought that the dim eyes gazing into his were the saddest he had
ever beheld.

"Yes," she replied, with the slow, German accent, "I know of you. Come
in."

He followed her into the little sitting room, which was as barren of
furnishings as it had been in the olden days.

"Sit down," she invited.

He took a chair opposite a cheap picture of a youth in uniform. A flag
of coarse material was pinned above this portrait, and underneath was
a roughly carved bracket on which was a glass filled with goldenrod.

"You lived here with your mother," she said musingly, "and she was
taken. I lived here with my son, and--he was taken."

"Oh!" said David. "I did not know--was he--"

His eyes sought the picture on the wall.

"Yes," she replied, answering his unspoken question, as she lifted her
eyes to her little shrine, "he enlisted and went to the Philippines.
He died there of fever more than a year ago."

David was silent. His brown, boyish hand shaded his eyes. It had been
his fault that he had not heard of this old woman and the loss of her
son. He had shrunk from all knowledge and mention of this little home
and its inmates. The country folk had recognized and respected his
reticence, which to people near the soil seems natural. This had been
the only issue in his life that he had dodged, and he was bitterly
repenting his negligence. In memory of his mother, he should have
helped the lonely old woman.

"You were left a poor, helpless boy," she continued, "and I am left a
poor, helpless old woman. The very young and the very old meet in
their helplessness, yet there is hope for the one--nothing for the
other."

"Yes, memories," he suggested softly, "and the pride you feel in his
having died as he did."

"There is that," she acknowledged with a sigh, "and if only I could
live on here in this little place where we have been so happy! But I
must leave it."

"Why?" asked David quickly.

"After my Carl died, things began to happen. When once they do that,
there is no stopping. The bank at the Corners failed, and I lost my
savings. The turkeys wandered away, the cow died, and now there's the
mortgage. It's due to-morrow, and then--the man that holds it will
wait no longer. So it is the poorhouse, which I have always
dreaded."

David's head lifted, and his eyes shone radiantly as he looked into
the tired, hopeless eyes.

"Your mortgage will be paid to-morrow, and--Don't you draw a pension
for your son?"

She looked at him in a dazed way.

"No, there is no pension--I--"

"Judge Thorne will get you one," he said optimistically, as he rose,
ready for action, "and how much is the mortgage?"

"Three hundred dollars," she said despairingly.

"Almost as much as the place is worth. Who holds the mortgage?"

"Deacon Prickley."

"You see," said David, trying to speak casually, "I have three hundred
dollars lying idle for which I have no use. I'll ride to town now and
have the Judge see that the place is clear to you, and he will get you
a pension, twelve dollars a month."

The worn, seamed face lifted to his was transfigured by its look of
beatitude.

"You mustn't," she implored. "I didn't know about the pension. That
will keep me, and I can find another little place somewhere. But the
money you offer--no! I have heard how you have been saving to go
through school."

He smiled.

"Uncle Barnabas and the Judge are anxious to pay my expenses at
college, and--you _must_ let me. I would like to think, don't you see,
that you are living here in my old home. It will seem to me as if I
were doing it for _my_ mother--as I would want some boy to do for her
if she were left--and it's my country's service he died in. I would
rather buy this little place for you, and know that you are living
here, than to buy anything else in the world."

The old face was quite beautiful now.

"Then I will let you," she said tremulously. "You see, I am a
hard-working woman and quite strong, but folks won't believe that,
because I am old; so they won't hire me to do their work, and they say
I should go to the poorhouse. But to old folks there's nothing like
having your own things and your own ways. They get to be a part of
you. I was thinking when you rode up that it would kill me not to see
the frost on the old poplar, and not to cover up my geraniums on the
chill nights."

Something stirred in David's heart like pain. He stooped and kissed
her gently. Then he rode away, rejoicing that he had worked to this
end. Four hours later he rode back to the little home.

"The Judge has paid over the money to Old Skinflint Prickley," he said
blithely, "and the place is all yours. The deacon had compounded the
interest, which is against the laws of the state, so here are a few
dollars to help tide you over until the Judge gets the pension for
you."

"David," she said solemnly, "an old woman's prayers may help you, and
some day, when you are a great man, you will do great deeds, but none
of them will be as great as that which you have done to-day."

David rode home with the echo of this benediction in his ears. He had
asked the Judge to keep the transaction secret, but of course the
Judge told Barnabas, who in turn informed Uncle Larimy.

"I told the boy when his ma died," said Uncle Larimy, "that things go
'skew sometimes, but that the sun would shine. The sun will allers be
a-shinin' fer him when he does such deeds as this."




CHAPTER III


The fare to his college town, his books, and his tuition so depleted
David's capital of one hundred dollars that he hastened to deposit the
balance for an emergency. Then he set about to earn his "keep," as he
had done in the country, but there were many students bent on a
similar quest and he soon found that the demand for labor was exceeded
by the supply.

Before the end of the first week he was able to write home that he had
found a nice, quiet lodging in exchange for the care of a furnace in
winter and the trimming of a lawn in other seasons, and that he had
secured a position as waiter to pay for his meals; also that there was
miscellaneous employment to pay for his washing and incidentals.

He didn't go into details and explain that the "nice quiet lodging"
was a third-floor rear whose gables gave David's six feet of length
but little leeway. It was quiet because the third floor was not
heated, and its occupants therefore stayed away as much as possible.
His services as waiter were required only at dinner time, in exchange
for which he received that meal. His breakfast and luncheon he
procured as best he could; sometimes he dispensed with them entirely.
Crackers, milk, and fruit, as the cheapest articles of diet, appeared
oftenest on his ménu. Sometimes he went fishing and surreptitiously
smuggled the cream of the catch up to his little abode, for Mrs.
Tupps' "rules to roomers," as affixed to the walls, were explicit: "No
cooking or washing allowed in rooms." But Mrs. Tupps, like her fires,
was nearly always out, for she was a member of the Woman's Relief
Corps, Ladies' Aid, Ladies' Guild, Woman's League, Suffragette
Society, Pioneer Society, and Eastern Star. At the meetings of these
various societies she was constant in attendance, so in her absence
her roomers "made hay," as David termed it, cooking their provender
and illicitly performing laundry work in the bathtub. Still, there
must always be "on guard" duty, for Mrs. Tupps was a stealthy stalker.
One saw her not, but now and then there was a faint rustle on the
stair. David's eyes and ears, trained to keenness, were patient and
vigilant, so he was generally chosen as sentinel, and he acquired new
caution, adroitness, and a quietness of movement.

There had been three or four close calls. Once, she had knocked at
his door as he was in the act of boiling eggs over the gas jet. In
the twinkling of an eye the saucepan was thrust under the bed, and
David, sweet and serene of expression, opened the door to the
inquisitive-eyed Tupps.

"I came to borrow a pen," she said shamelessly, her eyes penetrating
the cracks and crevices of the little room.

David politely regretted that he used an indelible pencil and
possessed no pens.

In the act of removing all records and remains of feasts, David became
an adept. Neat, unsuspicious looking parcels were made and conveyed,
after retiring hours, to a near-by vacant lot, where once had been
visible an excavation for a cellar, but this had been filled to street
level with tin cans, paper bags, butter bowls, cracker cases, egg
shells, and pie plates from the House of Tupps.

His miscellaneous employment, mentioned in his letter, was any sort of
work he could find to do.

David became popular with professors by reason of his record in
classes and the application and concentration he brought to his
studies. His prowess in all sports, his fairness, and the spirit of
_camaraderie_ he always maintained with his associates, made him a
general favorite. He wore fairly good clothes, was well groomed, and
always in good spirits, so of his privations and poverty only one or
two of those closest to him were even suspicious. He was entirely
reticent on the subject, though open and free in all other discourse,
and permitted no encroachment on personal matters. One or two chance
offenders intuitively perceived a slight but impassable barrier.

"Dunne has grown a little gaunt-eyed since he first came here," said
one of his chosen friends to a classmate one evening. "He's outdoors
enough to counteract overstudy. But do you suppose he has enough to
eat? So many of these fellows live on next to nothing."

"I shouldn't be surprised if he were on rations. You know he always
makes some excuse when we invite him to a spread. He's too proud to
accept favors and not reciprocate, I believe."

David overheard these remarks, and a very long walk was required to
restore his serenity. During this walk he planned to get some extra
work that would insure him compensation requisite to provide a modest
spread so that he might allay their suspicions. Upon his return to his
lodgings he found an enormous box which had come by express from
Lafferton. It contained Pennyroyal's best culinary efforts; also four
dozen eggs, a two-pound pat of butter, coffee, and a can of cream.

He propitiated Mrs. Tupps by the proffer of a dozen of the eggs and
told her of his desire to entertain his friends. It would be
impossible to do this in his room, for when he lay in bed he could
touch every piece of furniture with but little effort.

David had become his landlady's confidant and refuge in time of
trouble, and she was willing to allow him the privilege of the dining
room.

"I am going away to-night for a couple of days, but I would rather you
wouldn't mention it to the others. You may have the use of the dining
room and the dishes."

David's friends were surprised to receive an off-hand invitation from
him to "drop in for a little country spread." They were still more
surprised when they beheld the long table with its sumptuous array of
edibles,--raised biscuits, golden butter, cold chicken, pickles,
jelly, sugared doughnuts, pork cake, gold and silver cake, crullers,
mince pie, apple pie, cottage cheese, cider, and coffee.

"It looks like a county fair exhibit, Dunne," said a city-bred chap.

Six healthy young appetites did justice to this repast and insured
David's acceptance of five invitations to dine. It took Mrs. Tupps and
David fully a week to consume the remnants of this collation. The eggs
he bestowed upon an anemic-faced lodger who had been prescribed a milk
and egg diet, but with eggs at fifty cents a dozen he had not filled
his prescription.

[Illustration: "_David's friends were surprised to receive an off-hand
invitation
from him to 'drop in for a little country spread'_"]

At the end of the college year David went back to the farm, and a snug
sense of comfort and a home-longing filled him at the sight of the old
farmhouse, its lawn stretching into gardens, its gardens into
orchards, orchards into meadows, and meadows into woodlands. Through
the long, hot summer he tilled the fields, and invested the proceeds
in clothes and books for the ensuing year.

There followed three similar years of a hand-to-mouth existence, the
privations of which he endured in silence. There were little
occasional oases, such as boxes from Pennyroyal, or extra revenue now
and then from tutoring, but there were many, many days when his
healthy young appetite clamored in vain for appeasement. On such days
came the temptation to borrow from Barnabas the money to finish his
course in comfort, but the young conqueror never yielded to this
enticement. He grew stronger and sturdier in spirit after each
conflict, but lost something from his young buoyancy and elasticity
which he could never regain. His struggles added a touch of grimness
to his old sense of humor, but when he was admitted to the bar he was
a man in courage, strength, and endurance.




CHAPTER IV


It seemed to David, when he was at the farm again, that in his absence
time had stood still, except with Janey. She was a slender slip of a
girl, gentle voiced and soft hearted. Her eyes were infinitely blue
and lovely, and there was a glad little ring in her voice when she
greeted "Davey."

M'ri gave a cry of surprised pleasure when she saw her former charge.
He was tall, lithe, supple, and hard-muscled. His face was not very
expressive in repose, but showed a quiet strength when lighted by the
keenness of his serious, brown eyes and the sweetness of his smile.
His color was a deep-sea tan.

"It seems so good to be alive, Aunt M'ri. I thought I was weaned away
from farm life until I bit into one of those snow apples from the old
tree by the south corner of the orchard. Then I knew I was home."

Pennyroyal shed her first visible tear.

"I am glad you are home again, David," she sniffed. "You were always
such a clean boy."

"I missed you more'n any one did, David," acknowledged Miss Rhody. "Ef
I hed been a Catholic I should a felt as ef the confessional hed been
took from me. I ain't hed no one to talk secret like to excep' when
Joe comes onct a year. He ain't been fer a couple of years, either,
but he sent me anuther black dress the other day--silk, like the last
one. To think of little Joe Forbes a-growin' up and keepin' me in silk
dresses!"

"I'll buy your next one for you," declared David emphatically.

The next day after his return from college David started his legal
labors under the watchful eye of the Judge. He made a leap-frog
progress in acquiring an accurate knowledge of legal lore. He worked
and waited patiently for the Judge's recognition of his readiness to
try his first case, and at last the eventful time came.

"No; there isn't the slightest prospect of his winning it," the Judge
told his wife that night.

"The prosecution has strong evidence, and we have nothing--barely a
witness of any account."

"Then the poor man will be convicted and David will gain no glory,"
lamented M'ri. "It means so much to a young lawyer to win his first
case."

The Judge smiled.

"Neither of them needs any sympathy. Miggs ought to have been sent
over the road long ago. David's got to have experience before he gains
glory."

"How did you come to take such a case?" asked M'ri, for the Judge was
quite exclusive in his acceptance of clients.

"It was David's doings," said the Judge, with a frown that had a smile
lurking behind it.

"Why did he wish you to take the case?" persisted M'ri.

"As near as I can make out," replied the Judge, with a slight
softening of his grim features, "it was because Miggs' wife takes in
washing when Miggs is celebrating."

M'ri walked quickly to the window, murmuring some unintelligible sound
of endearment.

On the day of the summing-up at the trial the court room was crowded.
There were the habitual court hangers on, David's country friends _en
masse_, a large filling in at the back of the representatives of the
highways and byways, associates of the popular wrongdoer, and the
legal lore of the town, with the good-humored patronage usually
bestowed by the profession on the newcomer to their ranks.

As the Judge had said, his client was conceded to be slated for
conviction. If he had made the argument himself he would have made it
in his usual cool, well-poised manner. But David, although he knew
Miggs to be a veteran of the toughs, felt sure of his innocence in
this case, and he was determined to battle for him, not for the sake
of justice alone, but for the sake of the tired-looking washerwoman he
had seen bending over the tubs. This was an occupation she had to
resort to only in her husband's times of indulgence, for he was a wage
earner in his days of soberness.

When David arose to speak it seemed to the people assembled that the
coil of evidence, as reviewed by the prosecutor in his argument, was
drawn too closely for any power to extricate the victim.

At the first words of the young lawyer, uttered in a voice of winning
mellowness, the public forgot the facts in the case. Swayed by the
charm of David's personality, a current of new-born sympathy for the
prisoner ran through the court room.

David came up close to the jury and, as he addressed them, he seemed
to be oblivious of the presence of any one else in the room. It was as
though he were telling them, his friends, something he alone knew, and
that he was sure of their belief in his statements.

"For all the world," thought M'ri, listening, "as he used to tell
stories when he was a boy. He'd fairly make you believe they were
true."

To be sure the jury were all his friends; they had known him when
he was little "barefoot Dave Dunne." Still, they were captivated by
this new oratory, warm, vivid, and inspiring, delivered to the
accompaniment of dulcet and seductive tones that transported them
into an enchanted world. Their senses were stirred in the same way
they would be if a flag were unfurled.

"Sounds kind o' like orgin music," whispered Miss Rhody.

Yet underneath the eloquence was a logical simplicity, a keen sifting
of facts, the exposure of flaws in the circumstantial evidence. There
was a force back of what he said like the force back of the
projectile. About the form of the hardened sinner, Miggs, David
drew a circle of innocence that no one ventured to cross. Simply,
convincingly, and concisely he summed up, with a forceful appeal to
their intelligence, their honor, and their justice.

The reply by the assistant to the prosecutor was perfunctory and
ineffective. The charge of the judge was neutral. The jury left the
room, and were out eight and one-quarter minutes. As they filed in,
the foreman sent a triumphant telepathic message to David before he
quietly drawled out:

"Not guilty, yer Honor."

The first movement was from Mrs. Miggs. And she came straight to
David, not to the jury.

"David," said the Judge, who had cleared his throat desperately and
wiped his glasses carefully, at the look in the eyes of the young
lawyer when they had rested on the defendant's wife, "hereafter our
office will be the refuge for all the riffraff in the country."

This was his only comment, but the Judge did not hesitate to turn over
any case to him thereafter.

When David had added a few more victories to his first one, Jud made
one of his periodical diversions by an offense against the law which
was far more serious in nature than his previous misdeeds had been.
M'ri came out to the farm to discuss the matter.

"Barnabas, Martin thinks you had better let the law take its course
this time. He says it's the only procedure left untried to reform Jud.
He is sure he can get a light sentence for him--two years."

"M'ri," said Barnabas, in a voice vibrating with reproach, "do you
want Jud to go to prison?"

M'ri paled.

"I want to do what is best for him, Barnabas. Martin thinks it will be
a salutary lesson."

"I wonder, M'ri," said Barnabas slowly, "if the Judge had a son of his
own, he would try to reform him by putting him behind bars."

"Oh, Barnabas!" protested M'ri, with a burst of tears.

"He's still my boy, if he is wild, M'ri."

"But, Barnabas, Martin's patience is exhausted. He has got him out of
trouble so many times--and, oh, Barnabas, he says he won't under any
circumstances take the case! He is ashamed to face the court and jury
with such a palpably guilty client. I have pleaded with him, but I
can't influence him. You know how set he can be!"

"Wal, there are other lawyers," said Barnabas grimly.

[Illustration: "_He kept his word. Jud was cleared_"]

David had remained silent and constrained during this conversation,
the lines of his young face setting like steel. Suddenly he left the
house and paced up and down in the orchard, to wrestle once more with
the old problem of his boyhood days. It was different now. Then it had
been a question of how much he must stand from Jud for the sake of the
benefits bestowed by the offender's father. Now it meant a sacrifice
of principle. He had made his boyish boast that he would defend only
those who were wrongfully accused. To take this case would be to bring
his wagon down from the star. Then suddenly he found himself disposed
to arraign himself for selfishly clinging to his ideals.

He went back into the house, where M'ri was still tearfully arguing
and protesting. He came up to Barnabas.

"I will clear Jud, if you will trust the case to me, Uncle Barnabas."

Barnabas grasped his hand.

"Bless you, Dave, my boy," he said. "I wanted you to, but Jud has
been--wal, I didn't like to ask you."

"David," said M'ri, when they were alone, "Martin said you wouldn't
take a case where you were convinced of the guilt of the client."

"I shall take this case," was David's quiet reply.

"Really, David, Martin thinks it will be best for Jud--"

"I don't want to do what is best for Jud, Aunt M'ri, I want to do what
is best for Uncle Barnabas. It's the first chance I ever had to do
anything for him."

When Judge Thorne found that David was determined to defend Jud, he
gave him some advice:

"You must get counter evidence, if you can, David. If you have any
lingering idea that you can appeal to the jury on account of Barnabas
being Jud's father, root out that idea. There's no chance of rural
juries tempering justice with mercy. With them it's an eye for an eye,
every time."

David had an infinitely harder task in clearing Jud than he had had in
defending Miggs. The evidence was clear, the witnesses sure and wary,
and the prisoner universally detested save by his evil-minded
companions, but these obstacles brought out in full force all David's
indomitable will and alertness. He tipped up and entrapped the
prosecution's witnesses with lightning dexterity. One of them chanced
to be a man whom David had befriended, and he aided him by replying
shrewdly in Jud's favor.

But it was Jud himself who proved to be David's trump card. He was
keen, crafty, and quick to seize his lawyer's most subtle suggestions.
His memory was accurate, and with David's steering he avoided all
traps set for him on cross examination. When David stood before the
jury for the most stubborn fight he had yet made, his mother's last
piece of advice--all she had to bequeath to him--permeated every
effort. He put into his argument all the compelling force within him.
There were no ornate sentences this time, but he concentrated his
powers of logic and persuasiveness upon his task. The jury was out two
hours, during which time Barnabas and Jud sat side by side, pale and
anxious, but upheld by David's confident assurance of victory.

He kept his word. Jud was cleared.

"You're a smart lawyer, Dave," commented Uncle Larimy.

David looked at him whimsically.

"I had a smart client, Uncle Larimy."

"That's what you did, Dave, but he's gettin' too dernd smart. You'd a
done some of us a favor if you'd let him git sent up."




CHAPTER V


"Dave," said Barnabas on one memorable day, "the Jedge hez hed his
innings trying to make you a lawyer. Now it's my turn."

"All right, Uncle Barnabas, I am ready."

"Hain't you hed enough of law, Dave? You've given it a good trial, and
showed what you could do. It'll be a big help to you to know the law,
and it'll allers be sumthin' to fall back on when things get slack,
but ain't you pinin' fer somethin' a leetle spryer?"

"Yes, I am," was the frank admission. "I like the excitement attending
a case, and the fight to win, but it's drudgery between times--like
soldiering in time of peace."

"Wal, Dave, I've got a job fer you wuth hevin', and one that starts
toward what you air a-goin' to be."

David's breath came quickly.

"What is it?"

"Thar's no reason at all why you can't go to legislatur' and make new
laws instead of settin' in the Jedge's office and larnin' to dodge old
ones. I'm a-runnin' politics in these parts, and I'm a-goin' to git
you nominated. After that, you'll go the hull gamut--so 't will be up
the ladder and over the wall fer you, Dave."

So, David, to the astonishment of the Judge, put his foot on the
first round of the political ladder as candidate for the legislature.
At the same time Janey returned from the school in the East, where
she had been "finished," and David's heart beat an inspiring
tattoo every time he looked at her, but he was nominated by a
speech-loving, speech-demanding district, and he had so many
occasions for oratory that only snatches of her companionship were
possible throughout the summer.

Joe came on to join in the excitement attending the campaign. It had
been some time since his last visit, and he scarcely recognized David
when he met him at the Lafferton station.

"Well, Dave," said the ranchman, "if you are as strong and sure as you
look, you won't need my help in the campaign."

"I always need you, Joe. But you haven't changed in the least, unless
you look more serious than ever, perhaps."

"It's the outdoor life does that. Take a field-bred lad, he always
shies a bit at people."

"Your horse does, too, I notice. He arrived safely a week ago, and I
put him up at the livery here in Lafferton. I was afraid he would
demoralize all the horses at the farm."

"Good! I'll ride out this evening. I have a little business to attend
to here in town, and I want to see the Judge and his wife, of
course."

When the western sky line gleamed in crimson glory Joe came riding at
a long lope up the lane. He sat his spirited horse easily, one leg
thrown over the horn of his saddle. As he neared the house, a
thrashing machine started up. The desert-bred horse shied, and
performed maneuvers terrifying to Janey, but Joe in the saddle was
ever a part of the horse. Quietly and impassively he guided the
frightened animal until the machine was passed. Then he slid from the
horse and came up to Janey and David, who were awaiting his coming.

"This can never be little Janey!" he exclaimed, holding her hand
reverently.

"I haven't changed as much as Davey has," she replied, dimpling.

"Oh, yes, you have! You are a woman. David is still a boy, in spite of
his six feet."

"You don't know about Davey!" she said breathlessly. "He has won all
kinds of law cases, and he is going to the legislature."

Joe laughed.

"I repeat, he is still a boy."

On the morrow David started forth on a round of speech making,
canvassing the entire district. He returned at the wane of October's
golden glow for the round-up, as Joe termed the finish of the
campaign. The flaunting crimson of the maples, the more sedate tinge
of the oaks, the vivid yellow of the birches, the squashes piled up on
the farmhouse porches, and the fields filled with pyramidal stacks of
cornstalks brought a vague sense of loneliness as he rode out from
Lafferton to the farm. He left his horse at the barn and came up to
the house through the old orchard as the long, slanting rays of
sunlight were making afternoon shadows of all who crossed their path.

He found Janey sitting beneath their favorite tree. An open book lay
beside her. She was gazing abstractedly into space, with a new look in
her star-like eyes.

David's big, untouched heart gave a quick leap. He took up the book
and with an exultant little laugh discovered that it was a book of
poems! Janey, who could never abide fairy stories, reading poetry!
Surprised and embarrassed, after a shy greeting she hurried toward the
house, her cheeks flaming. Something very beautiful and breath-taking
came into David's thoughts at that moment.

He was roused from his beatific state by the approach of Barnabas, so
he was obliged to concentrate his attention on giving a résumé of his
tour. Then the Judge telephoned for him to come to his office, and he
was unable to finish his business there until dusk. The night was
clear and frost touched. He left his horse in the lane and walked up
to the house. As he came on to the porch he looked in through the
window. The bright fire on the hearth, the soft glow of the shaded
lamp, and the fair-haired girl seated by a table, needlework in hand,
gave him a hunger for a hearth of his own.

Suddenly the scene shifted. Joe came in from the next room. Janey rose
to her feet, a look of love lighting her face as she went to the arms
outstretched to receive her.




CHAPTER VI


David went back to Lafferton. The little maid informed him that the
Judge and his wife were out for the evening; but there was always a
room in readiness for him, so he sat alone by the window, staring into
the lighted street, trying to comprehend that Janey was not for him.

It was late the next morning when he came downstairs.

"I am glad, David, you decided to stay here last night," said M'ri,
whose eyes were full of a yearning solicitude.

She sat down at the table with him while he drank his coffee.

"David."

She spoke in a desperate tone, that caused him to glance keenly at
her.

"If you have anything to tell," he said quietly, "it's a good plan to
tell it at once."

"Since you have been away Joe and Janey have been together
constantly. It seems to have been a case of mutual love. David, they
are engaged."

"So," he said gravely, "I am to lose my little sister. Joe is a man in
a thousand."

"But, David, I had set my heart on Janey's marrying you, from that
very first day when you went to school together and you carried her
books. Do you remember?"

"Yes," he replied whimsically, "but even then Joe met us and took her
away from me. But I must drive out and congratulate them."

M'ri gazed after him in perplexity as he left the house.

"I wonder," she mused, "if I ever quite understood David!"

Miss Rhody called to David as he was passing her house and bade him
come in.

"You've hed a hard trip," she said, with a keen glance into his tired,
boyish eyes.

"Very hard, Miss Rhody."

"You have heard about Janey--and Joe?"

"Aunt M'ri just told me," he said, wincing ever so slightly.

"They was all sot on your being her sweetheart, except me and her--and
Joe."

"Why not you, Miss Rhody?"

"You ain't never been in love with Janey--not the way you'll love some
day. When I was sick last fall Almiry Green come over to read to me
and she brung a book of poems. I never keered much for po'try, and
Almiry, she didn't nuther, but she hed jest ketched Widower Pankey,
and so she thought it was proper to be readin' po'try. She read
somethin' about fust love bein' a primrose, and a-fallin' to make way
fer the real rose, and I thought to myself: 'That's David. His feelin'
fer Janey is jest a primrose.'"

David's eyes were inscrutable, but she continued:

"I knowed she hed allers fancied Joe sence she was a little tot and he
give her them beads. When Joe's name was spoke she was allers
shy-like. She wuz never shy-like with you."

"No," admitted David wearily, "but I must go on to the farm now, Miss
Rhody. I will come in again soon."

When he came into the sitting room of the farmhouse, where he found
Joe and Janey, the rare smile that comes with the sweetness of
renunciation was on his lips. After he had congratulated them, he
asked for Barnabas.

"He just started for the woods," said Joe. "I think he is on his way
to Uncle Larimy's."

David hastened to overtake him, and soon caught sight of the bent
figure walking slowly over the stubbled field.

"Uncle Barnabas!" he called.

Barnabas turned and waited.

"Did you see Janey and Joe?" he asked, looking keenly into the
shadowed eyes.

"Yes; Aunt M'ri had told me."

"When?"

"This morning. Joe's a man after your own heart, Uncle Barnabas."

"It's you I wanted fer her," said the old man bluntly. "I never dreamt
of its bein' enybody else. It's an orful disapp'intment to me, Dave.
I'd ruther see you her man than to see you what I told you long ago I
meant fer you to be."

"And I, too, Uncle Barnabas," said David, with slow earnestness,
"would rather be your son than to be governor of this state!"

"You did care, then, David," said the old man sadly. "It don't seem to
be much of a surprise to you."

"Uncle Barnabas, I will tell you something which I want no one else to
know. I came back last evening and drove out here. I looked in the
window, and saw her as she sat at work. It came into my heart to go in
then and ask her to marry me, instead of waiting until after election
as I had planned. Then Joe came in and she--went to him. I returned to
Lafferton. It was daylight before I had it out with myself."

"Dave! I thought I knew you better than any of them. It's been a purty
hard test, but you won't let it spile your life?"

"No, I won't, Uncle Barnabas. I owe it to you, if not to myself, to go
straight ahead as you have mapped it out for me."

"Bless you, Dave! You're the right stuff!"




PART THREE

CHAPTER I


In January David took his seat in the House of Representatives, of
which he was the youngest member. It was not intended by that august
body that he should take any rôle but the one tacitly conceded to him
of making silver-tongued oratory on the days when the public would
crowd the galleries to hear an all-important measure, the "Griggs
Bill," discussed. The committee were to give him the facts and the
general line of argument, and he was to dress it up in his fantastic
way. They were entirely willing that he should have the applause from
the public as well as the credit of the victory; all they cared for
was the certainty of the passage of the bill.

David's cool, lawyer-like mind saw through all these manipulations and
machinations even if he were only a political tenderfoot. As other
minor measures came up he voted for or against them as his better
judgment dictated, but all his leisure hours were devoted to the
investigation and study of the one big bill which was to be rushed
through at the end of the session. He pored over the status of the
law, found out the policies and opinions of other states on the
subject, and listened attentively to all arguments, but he never took
part in the discussions and he was very guarded in giving an
expression of his views, an attitude which pleased the promoters of
the bill until it began to occur to them that his caution came from
penetration into their designs and, perhaps, from intent to thwart
them.

"He has ketched on," mournfully stated an old-timer from the third
district. "I'm allers mistrustful of these young critters. They are
sure to balk on the home stretch."

"Well, one good thing," grinned a city member, "it breaks their
record, and they don't get another entry."

David had made a few short speeches on some of the bills, and those
who had read in the papers of the wonderful powers of oratory of the
young member from the eleventh flocked to hear him. They were
disappointed. His speeches were brief, forceful, and logical, but
entirely barren of rhetorical effect. The promoters of the Griggs Bill
began to wonder, but concluded he was saving all his figures of speech
to sugarcoat their obnoxious measure. It occurred to them, too, that
if by chance he should oppose them his bare-handed way of dealing with
subterfuges and his clear presentation of facts would work harm. They
counted, however, on being able to convince him that his future status
in the life political depended upon his coöperation with them in
pushing this bill through.

Finally he was approached, and then the bomb was thrown. He quietly
and emphatically told them he should fight the bill, single handed if
necessary. Recriminations, arguments, threats, and inducements--all
were of no avail.

"Let him hang himself if he wants to," growled one of the committee.
"He hasn't influence enough to knock us out. We've got the
majority."

The measure was one that would radically affect the future interests
of the state, and was being watched and studied by the people, who had
not, as yet, however, realized its significance or its far-reaching
power. The intent of the promoters of the Griggs Bill was to leave the
people unenlightened until it should have become a law.

"Dunne won't do us any harm," argued the father of the bill on the
eventful day. "He's been saving all his skyrockets for this
celebration. He'll get lots of applause from the women folks," looking
up at the solidly packed gallery, "and his speech will be copied in
all the papers, and that'll be the reward he's looking for."

When David arose to speak against the Griggs Bill he didn't look the
youngster he had been pictured. His tall, lithe, compelling figure was
drawn to its full height. His eyes darkened to intensity with the
gravity of the task before him; the stern lines of his mouth bespoke
a master of the situation and compelled confidence in his knowledge
and ability.

The speech delivered in his masterful voice was not so much in
opposition to the bill as it was an exposure of it. He bared it
ruthlessly and thoroughly, but he didn't use his youthful hypnotic
periods of persuasive eloquence that had been wont to sway juries and
to creep into campaign speeches. His wits had been sharpened in the
last few months, and his keen-edged thrusts, hurled rapier-like,
brought a wince to even the most hardened of veteran members. It was a
complete enlightenment in plain words to a plain people--a concise and
convincing protest.

When he finished there was a tempest of arguments from the other side,
but there was not a point he had not foreseen, and as attack only
brought out the iniquities of the measure, they let the bill come to
ballot. The measure was defeated, and for days the papers were
headlined with David Dunne's name, and accounts of how the veterans
had been routed by the "tenderfoot from the eleventh."

After his dip into political excitement legal duties became a little
irksome to David, especially after the wedding of Joe and Janey had
taken place. In the fall occurred the death of the United States
senator from the western district of the state. A special session of
the legislature was to be convened for the purpose of pushing through
an important measure, and the election of a successor to fill the
vacancy would take place at the same time. The usual "certain rich
man," anxious for a career, aspired, and, as he was backed by the
state machine as well as by the covert influence of two or three of
the congressmen, his election seemed assured.

There was an opposing candidate, the choice of the people, however,
who was gathering strength daily.

"We've got to head off this man Dunne some way," said the manager of
the "certain rich man." "He can't beat us, but with him out of the way
it would be easy sailing, and all opposition would come over to us on
the second ballot."

"Isn't there a way to win him over?" asked a congressman who was
present.

The introducer of the memorable measure of the last session shook his
head negatively.

"He can't be persuaded, threatened, or bought."

"Then let's get him out of the way."

"Kidnap him?"

"Decoy him gently from your path. The consul of a little seaport in
South America has resigned, and at a word from me to Senator Hollis,
who would pass it on to the President, this appointment could be given
to your young bucker, and he'd be out of your way for at least three
years."

"That would be too good to be true, but he wouldn't bite at such bait.
His aspirations are all in a state line. He's got the usual career
mapped out,--state senator, secretary of state, governor--possibly
President."

"You can never tell," replied the congressman sagaciously. "A
presidential appointment, the alluring word 'consul,' a foreign
residence, all sound very enticing and important to a young country
man. The Dunne type likes to be the big frog in the puddle. This
stripling you are all so afraid of hasn't cut all his wisdom teeth
yet. It's worth a try. I'll tackle him."

The morning after this conversation, as David walked down to the
Judge's office he felt very lonely--a part of no plan. It was a mood
that made him ripe for the purpose of the congressman whom he found
awaiting him.

"I've been wanting to meet you for a long time, Mr. Dunne," said the
congressman obsequiously, after the Judge had introduced him. "We've
heard a great deal about you down in Washington since your defeat of
the Griggs Bill, and we are looking for great things from you. Of
course, we have to keep our eye on what is going on back here."

The Judge looked his surprise at this speech, and was still more
mystified at receiving a knowing wink from David.

After some preliminary talk the congressman finally made known his
errand, and tendered David the offer of a consulship in South
America.

At this juncture the Judge was summoned to the telephone in another
room. When he returned the congressman had taken his departure.

"Behold," grinned David, "the future consul of--I really can't
pronounce it. I am going to look it up now in your atlas."

"Where is Gilbert?" asked the Judge.

"Gone to wire Hilliard before I can change my mind. You see, it's a
scheme to get me out of the road and I--well I happen to be willing to
get out of the road just now. I am not in a fighting mood."

"Consular service," remarked the Judge oracularly, "is generally
considered a sort of clearing house for undesirable politicians. The
consuls to those little ports are, as a rule, very poor."

"Then a good consul like your junior partner will loom up among so
many poor ones."

Barnabas was inwardly disturbed by this move from David, but he
philosophically argued that "the boy was young and 't wouldn't harm
him to salt down awhile."

"Dave," he counseled in farewell, "I hope you'll come to love some
good gal. Every man orter hev a hearth of his own. This stretchin'
yer feet afore other folks' firesides is unnateral and lonesome.
Thar's no place so snug and safe fer a man as his own home, with a
good wife to keep it. But I want you tew make me a promise, Dave. When
I see the time's ripe fer pickin' in politics, will you come back?"

"I will, Uncle Barnabas," promised David solemnly.

The heartiest approval came from Joe.

"That's right, Dave, see all you can of the world instead of settling
down in a pasture lot at Lafferton."




CHAPTER II


Gilbert, complacent and affable, returned to Washington accompanied by
David. A month later the newly made consul sailed from New York for
South America. He landed at a South American seaport that had a fine
harbor snugly guarded by jutting cliffs skirting the base of a hill
barren and severe in aspect.

As he walked down the narrow, foreign streets thronged with a strange
people, and saw the structures with their meaningless signs, he began
to feel a wave of homesickness. Then, looking up, he felt that little
inner thrill that comes from seeing one's flag in a foreign land.

"And that is why I am here," he thought, "to keep that flag flying."

He resolutely started out on the first day to keep the flag flying in
the manner befitting the kind of a consul he meant to be. He
maintained a strict watch over the commercial conditions, and his
reports of consular news were promptly rendered in concise and
instructive form. His native tact and inherent courtesy won him favor
with the government, his hospitality and kindly intent conciliated the
natives, and he was soon also accorded social privileges. He began to
enjoy life. His duties were interesting, and his leisure was devoted
to the pursuit of novel pleasures.

Fletcher Wilder, the son of the president of an American mining
company, was down there ostensibly to look after his father's
interests, but in reality to take out pleasure parties in his trim
little yacht, and David soon came to be the most welcome guest that
set foot on its deck.

At the end of a year, when his duties had become a matter of routine
and his life had lost the charm of novelty, David's ambitions started
from their slumbers, though not this time in a political way. Wilder
had cruised away, and the young consul was conscious of a sense of
aloneness. He spent his evenings on his spacious veranda, from where
he could see the moonlight making a rippling road of silver across the
black water. The sensuous beauty of the tropical nights brought him
back to his early Land of Dreams, and the pastime that he had been
forced to relinquish for action now appealed to him with overwhelming
force and fascination. But the dreams were a man's dreams, not the
fleeting fancies of a boy. They continued to possess and absorb him
until one night, when he was looking above the mountains at one lone
star that shone brighter than the rest, he was moved for the first
time to give material shape and form to his conceptions. The impulse
led to execution.

"I must get it out of my system," he explained half apologetically to
himself as he began the writing of a novel. To this task, as to
everything else he had undertaken, he brought the entire concentration
of his mind and energy, until the book soon began to seem real to
him--more real than anything he had done. As he was copying the last
page for the last time, Fletcher sailed into the harbor for a week of
farewell before returning to New York.

"What have you been doing for amusement these last six months,
Dunne?" he asked as he dropped into David's house.

"You'd never guess," said David, "what your absence drove me to. I've
written a book--a novel."

"Let me take it back to the hotel with me to-night. I haven't been
sleeping well lately, and it may--"

"If it serves as a soporific," said David gravely, as he handed him
the bulky package, "my labor will not have been in vain."

The next morning Wilder came again into David's office.

"I fear you didn't sleep well, after all," observed David, looking at
his visitor's heavy-lidded eyes.

"No, darn you, Dunne. I took up your manuscript and I never laid it
down until the first streaks of dawn. Then when I went to bed I lay
awake thinking it all over. Why, Dunne, it's the best book I ever
read!"

"I wish," David replied with a whimsical smile, "that you were a
publisher."

"Speaking of publishers, that's why I didn't bring the manuscript
back. I sail in a week, and I want you to let me take it to a
publisher I know in New York. He will give it a prompt reading."

"If it wouldn't bother you too much, I wish you would. You see, it
would take so long for it to come back here and be sent out again each
time it is rejected."

"Rejected!" scoffed Wilder. "You wait and see! Aren't you going to
dedicate it?"

David hesitated, his eyes stealing dreamily out across the bay to the
horizon line.

"I wonder," he said meditatively, "if the person to whom it is
dedicated--every word of it--wouldn't know without the inscription."

"No," objected Fletcher, "you should have it appear out of compliment."

He smiled as he wrote on a piece of paper: "To T. L. P."

"The initials of your sweetheart?" quizzed Fletcher.

"No; when I was a little chap I used to spin yarns. These are the
initials of one who was my most absorbed listener."

Wilder raised anchor and sailed back to the states. At the expiration
of two months he wrote David that his book had been accepted. In time
ten bound copies of his novel, his allotment from the publishers,
brought him a thrill of indescribable pleasure. The next mail brought
papers with glowing reviews and letters of commendation and
congratulations. Next came a good-sized check, and the information
that his book was a "best seller."

The night that this information was received he went up to the top of
the hill that jutted over the harbor and listened to the song of the
waves. Two years in this land of liquid light--a land of burning days
and silent, sapphired nights, a land of palms and olives--two years of
quiet, dreamy bliss, an idle and unsubstantial time! How evanescent it
seemed, by the light of the days at home, when something had always
pressed him to action.

"Two years of drifting," he thought. "It is time I, too, raised anchor
and sailed home."

The next mail brought a letter that made his heart beat faster than it
had yet been able to do in this exotic, lazy land. It was a recall
from Barnabas.

  "DEAR DAVE:

  "Nothing but a lazy life in a foreign land would have drove a
  man like you to write a book. The Jedge and M'ri are pleased,
  but I know you are cut out for something different. I want you
  to come home in time to run for legislature again. There's goin'
  to be something doin'. It is time for another senator, and who
  do you suppose is plugging for it, and opening hogsheads of
  money? Wilksley. I want for you to come back and head him off.
  If you've got one speck of your old spirit, and you care
  anything about your state, you'll do it. I am still running
  politics for this county at the old stand. Your book has started
  folks to talking about you agen, so come home while the picking
  is good. You've dreamt long enough. It is time to get up. Don't
  write no more books till you git too old to work.

                                       "Yours if you come,
                                                         "B. B."

The letter brought to David's eyes something that no one in this balmy
land had ever seen there. With the look of a fighter belted for battle
he went to the telegraph office and cabled Barnabas, "Coming."




CHAPTER III


On his return to Lafferton David was met at the train by the Judge,
M'ri, and Barnabas.

"Your trunks air goin' out to the farm, Dave, ain't they?" asked
Barnabas wistfully.

"Of course," replied David, with an emphasis that brought a look of
pleasure to the old man.

"Your telegram took a great load offen my mind," he said, as they
drove out to the farm. "Miss Rhody told me all along I need hev no
fears fer you, that you weren't no dawdler."

"Good for Miss Rhody!" laughed David. "She shall have her reward. I
brought her silk enough for two dresses at least."

"David," said M'ri suddenly at the dinner table, "do tell me for whose
name those initials in the dedication to your book stand. Is it any
one I know?"

"I hardly know the person myself," was the smiling and evasive
reply.

"A woman, David?"

"She figured largely in my fairy stories."

"A nickname he had for Janey," she thought with a sigh.

"Uncle Barnabas," said David the next day, "before we settle down to
things political tell me if you regret my South American experience."

"Now that you're back and gittin' into harness, I'll overlook
anything. You'd earnt a breathing spell, and you look a hull lot
older. Your book's kep' your name in the papers, tew, which helps."

"I will show you something that proves the book did more than that,"
said David, drawing his bank book from his pocket and passing it to
the old man, who read it unbelievingly.

"Why, Dave, you're rich!" he exclaimed.

"No; not rich. I shall always have to work for my living. So tell me
the situation."

This fully occupied the time it took to drive to town, for Cold
Molasses, successor to Old Hundred, kept the pace his name indicated.
The day was spent in meeting old friends, and then David settled down
to business with his old-time energy. Once more he was nominated for
the legislature and took up the work of campaigning for Stephen Hume,
opponent to Wilksley. Hume was an ardent, honest, clean-handed
politician without money, but he had for manager one Ethan Knowles, a
cool-headed, tireless veteran of campaign battles, with David acting
as assistant and speech maker.

David was elected, went to the capital, and was honored with the
office of speaker by unanimous vote. He had his plans carefully drawn
for the election of Hume, who came down on the regular train and
established headquarters at one of the hotels, surrounded by a quiet
and determined body of men.

Wilksley's supporters, a rollicking lot, had come by special train and
were quartered at a club, dispensing champagne and greenbacks
promiscuously and freely. There was also a third candidate, whose
backers were non-committal, giving no intimation as to where their
strength would go in case their candidate did not come in as a dark
horse.

When the night of the senatorial contest came the floor, galleries,
and lobby of the House were crowded. The Judge, M'ri, and Joe were
there, Janey remaining home with her father, who refused to join the
party.

"Thar'll be bigger doin's fer me to see Dave officiate at," he
prophesied.

The quietly humorous young man wielding the gavel found it difficult
to maintain quiet in the midst of such excitement, but he finally
evolved order from chaos.

Wilksley was the first candidate nominated, a gentleman from the
fourteenth delivering a bombastic oration in pompous periods,
accompanied by lofty gestures. He was followed by an understudy, who
made an ineffective effort to support his predecessor.

"A ricochet shot," commented Joe. "Wait till Dave hits the bullseye."

The supporting representatives of the dark horse made short, forceful
speeches. Then followed a brief intermission, while David called a
substitute _pro tem_ to the speaker's desk. He stepped to the platform
to make the nominating speech for Hume, the speech for which every
one was waiting. There was a hush of expectancy, and M'ri felt little
shivers of excitement creeping down her spine as she looked up at
David, dauntless, earnest, and compelling, as he towered above them
all.

In its simplicity, its ring of truth, and its weight of conviction,
his speech was a masterpiece.

"A young Patrick Henry!" murmured the Judge.

M'ri made no comment, for in that flight of a second that intervened
between David's speech and the roar of tumultuous applause, she had
heard a voice, a young, exquisite voice, murmur with a little indrawn
breath, "Oh, David!"

M'ri turned in surprise, and looked into the confused but smiling face
of a lovely young girl, who said frankly and impulsively: "I don't
know who Mr. Hume may be, but I do hope he wins."

M'ri smiled in sympathy, trying to place the resemblance. Then her
gaze wandered to the man beside the young girl.

"You are Carey Winthrop!" she exclaimed.

The man turned, and leaned forward.

"Mrs. Thorne, this is indeed a pleasure," he said, extending his
hand.

Joe then swung his chair around into their vision.

"Oh, Joe!" cried the young girl ecstatically. "And where is Janey?"

The balloting was in progress, and there was opportunity for mutual
recalling of old times. Then suddenly the sibilant sounds dropped to
silence as the result was announced. Wilksley had the most votes, the
dark horse the least; Hume enjoyed a happy medium, with fifteen more
to his count than forecast by the man behind the button, as Joe
designated Knowles.

In the rush of action from the delegates, reporters, clerks, and
messengers, the place resembled a beehive. Then came another ballot
taking. Hume had gained ten votes from the Wilksley men and fifteen
from the dark horse, but still lacked the requisite number.

From the little retreat where Hume's manager was ensconced, with his
hand on the throttle, David emerged. He looked confident and
determined.

The third ballot resulted in giving Hume the entire added strength of
the dark horse, and enough votes to elect. A committee was thereupon
appointed to bring the three candidates to the House. When they
entered and were escorted to the platform they each made a speech, and
then formed a reception line. David stood apart, talking to one of the
members. He was beginning to feel the reaction from the long strain he
had been under and wished to slip away from the crowd. Suddenly he
heard some one say:

"Mr. Speaker, may I congratulate you?"




CHAPTER IV


He turned quickly, his heart thrilling at the charm in the voice, low,
yet resonant, and sweet with a lurking suggestion of sadness.

A girl, slender and delicately made, stood before him, a girl with an
exquisite grace and a nameless charm--the something that lurks in the
fragrance of the violet. Her eyes were not the quiet, solemn eyes of
the little princess of his fairy tales, but the deep, fathomless eyes
of a maiden.

A reminiscent smile stole over his face.

"The little princess!" he murmured, taking her hand.

The words brought a flush of color to her fair face.

"The prince is a politician now," she replied.

"The prince has to be a politician to fight for his kingdom. Have you
been here all the evening?"

"Yes; father and I sat with your party. But you were altogether too
absorbed to glance our way."

"Are you visiting in the city? Will you be here long?"

"For to-night only. I've been West with father, and we only stopped
off to see what a senatorial fight was like; also, to hear you speak.
To-morrow we return East, and then mother and I shall go abroad.
Father," calling to Mr. Winthrop, "I am renewing my acquaintance with
Mr. Dunne."

"I wish to do the same," he said, extending his hand cordially. "I
expect to be able to tell people some day that I used to fish in a
country stream with the governor of this state when he was a boy."

After a few moments of general conversation they all left the
statehouse together.

"Carey," said Mr. Winthrop, "I am going with the Judge to the club, so
I will put you in David's hands. I believe you have no afraidments
with him."

"That has come to be a household phrase with us," she laughed; "but
you forget, father, that Mr. Dunne has official duties."

"If you only knew," David assured her earnestly, "how thankful I am
for a release from them. My task is ended, and I don't wish to
celebrate in the usual and political way."

"There is a big military ball at the hotel," informed Joe. "Mrs.
Thorne and I thought we would like to go and look on."

"A fine idea, Joe. Maybe you would like to go?" he said to Carey,
trying to make his tone urgent.

She laughed at his dismayed expression.

"No; you may walk to the Bradens' with me. We couldn't get in at the
hotels, and father met Major Braden on the street. He is instructor or
something of the militia of this state, and has gone to the ball with
his wife. They supposed that this contest would last far into the
night, so they planned to be home before we were."

"We will get a carriage as soon as we are out of the grounds."

"Have you come to carriages?" she asked, laughingly. "You used to say
if you couldn't ride horseback, or walk, you would stand still."

"And you agreed with me that carriages were only for the slow, the
stupid, and the infirm," he recalled. "It's a glorious night. Would
you rather walk, really?"

"Really."

At the entrance to the grounds they parted from the others and went up
one of the many avenues radiating from the square.

The air was full of snowflakes, moving so softly and so slowly they
scarcely seemed to fall. The electric lights of the city shone
cheerfully through the white mist, and the sound of distant
mirthmakers fell pleasantly on the ear.

"Snow is the only picture part of winter," said Carey. "Do you
remember the story of the Snow Princess?"

"You must have a wonderful memory!" he exclaimed. "You were only six
years old when I told you that story."

"I have a very vivid memory," she replied. "Sometimes it almost
frightens me."

"Do you know," he said, "that I think people that have dreams and
fancies do look backward farther than matter-of-fact people, who let
things out of sight go out of mind?"

"You were full of dreams then, but I don't believe you are now. Of
course, politicians have no time or inclination for dreams."

"No; they usually have a dread of dreams. Would you rather have found
me still a dreamer?" he asked, looking down into her dark eyes, which
drooped beneath the intensity of his gaze.

Then her delicate face, misty with sweetness, turned toward him
again.

"No; dreams are for children and for old people, whose memories, like
their eyes, are for things far off. This is your time to do things,
not to dream them. And you have done things. I heard Major Braden
telling father about you at dinner--your success in law, your getting
some bill killed in the legislature, and your having been to South
America. Father says you have had a wonderful career for a young man.
I used to think when I was a little girl that when you were a grown-up
prince you would kill dragons and bring home golden fleeces."

He smiled with a sudden deep throb of pleasure. Her voice stirred him
with a sense of magic.

"This is the Braden home," she said, stopping before a big house that
seemed to be all pillars and porches. "You'll come in for a little
while, won't you?"

"I'll come in, if I may, and help you to recall some more of Maplewood
days."

A trim little maid opened the door and led the way into a long library
where in the fireplace a pine backlog, crisscrossed by sturdy forelogs
of birch and maple, awaited the touch of a match. It was given, and
the room was filled with a flaring light that made the soft lamplight
seem pale and feeble.

"This is a genuine Brumble fire," he exclaimed, as they sat down
before the ruddy glow. "It carries me back to farm life."

"How many phases of life you have seen," mused Carey. "Country,
college, city, tropical, and now this political life. Which one have
you really enjoyed the most?"

"My life in the Land of Dreams--that beautiful Isle of Everywhere," he
replied.

Her eyes grew radiant with understanding.

"You are not so very much changed since your days of dreaming," she
said, smiling. "To be sure, you have lost your freckles and you don't
kick at the ground when you walk, and--"

"And," he reminded, as she paused.

"You are no longer twice my age."

"Did Janey tell you?"

"Yes; the last summer I was at Maplewood--the summer you were
graduated. You say you don't dream any more, but it wasn't so very
long ago that you did, else how could you have written that wonderful
book?"

"Then you read it?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course I read it."

"All of it?"

"Could any one begin it and not finish it? I've read some parts of it
many times."

"Did you," he asked slowly, holding her eyes in spite of her desire
to lower them, "read the dedication?"

And by their subtle confession he knew that this was one of the parts
she had read "many times."

"Yes," she replied, trying to speak lightly, but breathing quickly,
"and I wondered who T. L. P. might be."

"And so you didn't know," in slow, disappointed tones, "that they
stood for the name I gave you when I first met you--the name by which
I always think of you? It was with your perfect understanding of my
old fancies in mind that I wrote the book. And so I dedicated it to
you, thinking if you read it you would know even without the
inscription. Some one suggested--"

"It was Fletcher," she began.

"Oh, you know Wilder?"

"Yes, I've known him always. He has told me of your days in South
America together and how he told you to dedicate it. And he wondered
who T. L. P. might be."

"And you never guessed?"

Her face, bent over the firelight, looked small and white; her
beautiful eyes were fixed and grave. Then suddenly she lifted them to
his with the artlessness of a child.

"I did know," she confessed. "At least, I hoped--I claimed it as my
book, anyway, but I thought your memory of those summers at the farm
might not have been as keen as mine."

"It is keen," he replied. "I have always thought of you as a little
princess who only lived in my dreams, but, hereafter, you are not only
in my past dreams, but I hope, in my future."

"When we come back--"

"Will you be gone long?" he asked wistfully. "Is your father--"

"Father can't go, but he may join us."

After a moment's hesitation she continued, with a slight blush:

"Fletcher is going with us."

"Oh," he said, wondering at his tinge of disappointment.

"Carey," he said wistfully, as he was leaving, "don't you think when a
man dedicates a book to a girl, and they both have a joint claim on a
territory known as the Land of Dreams, that she might call him, as she
did when they were boy and girl, by his first name?"

"Yes, David," she replied with a light little laugh.

The music of the soft "a" rang entrancingly in his ears as he walked
back to the hotel.




CHAPTER V


There was but one important measure to deal with in this session of
the legislature, but David's penetration into a thorough understanding
of each bill, and the patience and sagacity he displayed in settling
all disputes, won the approbation of even doubtful and divided
factions. He flashed a new fire of life into the ebbing enthusiasm of
his followers, whom he had led to victory on the Griggs Bill. At the
close of the session, early in May, he was presented with a set of
embossed resolutions commending his fulfillment of his duties.

That same night, in his room at the hotel, as he was packing his
belongings, he was waited upon by a delegation composed alike of
horny-handed tillers of the soil and distinguished statesmen.

"We come, David," said the spokesman, who had been chairman of the
county convention, "to say that you are our choice for the next
governor of this state, and in saying this we know we are echoing the
sentiment of the Republican party. In fact, we are looking to you as
the only man who can bring that party to victory."

He said many more things, flattering and echoed by his followers. It
made the blood tingle in David's veins to know that these men of
plain, honest, country stock, like himself, believed in him and in his
honor. In kaleidoscopic quickness there passed in review his
life,--the days when he and his mother had struggled with a wretched
poverty that the neighbors had only half suspected, the first turning
point in his life, when he was taken unto the hearth and home of
strong-hearted people, his years at college, the plodding days in
pursuit of the law, his hotly waged fight in the legislature, and his
short literary career, and he felt a surging of boyish pride at the
knowledge that he was now approaching his goal.

The next morning David went to Lafferton in order to discuss the road
to the ruling of the people.

"Whom would you suggest for manager of my campaign, Uncle Barnabas?"
he asked.

"Knowles came to me and offered his services. Couldn't have a slicker
man, Dave."

"None better in the state. I shouldn't have ventured to ask him."

Janey was home for the summer, and on the first evening of his return
she and David sat together on the porch.

"Oh, Davey," she said with a little sob, "Jud has come home again, and
they say he isn't just wild any more, but thoroughly bad."

The tears in her eyes and the tremor in her tone stirred all his old
protective instinct for her.

"Poor Jud! I'll see if I can't awaken some ambition in him for a
different life."

"You've been very patient, Davey, but do try again. Every one is down
on him now but father and you and me. Aunt M'ri has let the Judge
prejudice her; Joe hasn't a particle of patience with him, and he
can't understand how I can have any, but you do, Davey. You understand
everything."

They sat in silence, watching the stars pierce vividly through the
blackness of the sky, and presently his thoughts strayed from Jud and
from his fair young sister. In fancy he saw the queenly carriage of an
imperious little head, the mystery lurking in a pair of purple eyes,
and heard the cadence in an exquisite voice.

The next morning he began the fight, and there was an incessant
cannonade from start to finish against the upstart boy nominee, who
proved to be an adversary of unremitting activity, the tact and
experience of Knowles making a fortified intrenchment for him. All of
David's friends rallied strongly to his support. Hume came from
Washington, Joe from the ranch, and Wilder from the East, his father
having a branch concern in the state.

Through the long, hot summer the warfare waged, and by mid-autumn it
seemed a neck and neck contest--a contest so susceptible that the
merest breath might turn the tide at any moment. The week before the
election found David still resolute, grim, and determined. Instead of
being discouraged by adverse attacks he had gained new vigor from
each downthrow. All forces rendezvoused at the largest city in the
state for the final engagement.

Three days before election he received a note in a handwriting that
had become familiar to him during the past year. With a rush of
surprise and pleasure he noted the city postmark. The note was very
brief, merely mentioning the hotel at which they were stopping and
asking him to call if he could spare a few moments from his campaign
work.

In an incredibly short time after the receipt of this note he was at
the hotel, awaiting an answer to his card. He was shown to the sitting
room of the suite, and Carey opened the door to admit him. This was
not the little princess of his dreams, nor the charming young girl who
had talked so ingenuously with him before the Braden fireside. This
was a woman, stately yet gracious, vigorous yet exquisite.

"I am glad we came home in time to see you elected," she said. "It is
a great honor, David, to be the governor of your state."

There was a shade of deference in her manner to him which he realized
was due to the awe with which she regarded the dignity of his elective
office. This amused while it appealed to him.

"We are on our way to California to spend the winter," she replied, in
answer to his eager question, "and father proposed stopping here until
after election."

"You come in and out of my life like a comet," he complained
wistfully.

Mrs. Winthrop came in, smiling and charming as ever. She was very
cordial to David, and interested in his campaign, but it seemed to him
that she was a little too gracious, as if she wished to impress him
with the fact that it was a concession to meet him on an equal social
footing. For Mrs. Winthrop was inclined to be of the world, worldly.

"You have arrived at an auspicious time," he assured her. "To-night
the Democrats will have the biggest parade ever scheduled for this
city. Joe calls it the round-up."

"Oh, is Joe here?" asked Carey eagerly.

"Yes; and another friend of yours, Fletcher Wilder."

"I knew that he was here," she said, with an odd little smile.

"We had expected to see him in New York, and were surprised to learn
he was out here," said Mrs. Winthrop.

"He came to help me in my campaign," informed David.

"Fletcher interested in politics! How strange!"

"His interest is purely personal. We were together in South America,
you know."

"I am glad that you have a friend in him," said Mrs. Winthrop affably.
"The parade will pass here, and Fletcher is coming up, of course. Why
not come up, too, if you can spare the time?"

"This is not my night," laughed David. "It's purely and simply a
Democratic night. I shall be pleased to come."

"Bring Joe, too," reminded Carey.

When Mr. Winthrop came in David had no doubt as to the welcome he
received from the head of the family.

"A man's measure of a man," thought David, "is easily taken, and by
natural laws, but oh, for an understanding of the scales by which
women weigh! And yet it is they who hold the balance."

"Fletcher and David and Joe are coming to-night to watch the parade
from here," said Carey.

"You shall all dine with us," said Mr. Winthrop.

"Thank you," replied David, "but--"

"Oh, but you must," insisted Mrs. Winthrop, who always warmly seconded
any proffer of hospitality made by her husband. "Fletcher will dine
with us, of course. We can have a little dinner served here in our
rooms. Write a note to Mr. Forbes, Carey."

The marked difference in type of her three guests as they entered the
sitting room that night struck Mrs. Winthrop forcibly. Joe, lean and
brown, with laughing eyes, was the typical frontiersman; Fletcher,
quiet and substantial looking, with his air of culture and ease and
his modulated voice, was the type of a city man; David--"What a man he
is!" she was forced to admit as he stood, head uplifted in the white
glare under the chandelier, the brilliant light shining upon his dark
hair, and his eyes glowing like stars. His lithe figure, perfect in
poise and balance, of virile strength that was toil-proof, wore the
look of the outdoor life. His smile banished everything that was
ordinary from his face and transmuted it into a glowing personality.
His eyes, serious with that insight of the observer who knows what is
going on without and within, were clear and steady.

The table was laid for six in the sitting room, the flowers and
candles giving it a homelike look.

As Mrs. Winthrop listened to the conversation between her husband and
David she was forced to admit that the young candidate for governor
was a man of mark.

"I never knew a man without good birth to have such perfect breeding,"
she thought. "He really appears as well as Fletcher, and, well, of
course, he has more temperament. If he could have been born on a
different plane," thinking of her long line of Virginia ancestors.

She had ceded a great deal to her husband's and Carey's democracy, and
reserved many an unfavorable criticism of their friends and their
friends' ways with a tactfulness that had blinded their eyes to her
true feelings. Yet David knew instinctively her standpoint; she partly
suspected that he knew, and the knowledge did not disturb her; she
intuitively gauged his pride, and welcomed it, for a suitor of the
Fletcher Wilder station of life was more to her liking.

Carey led David away from her father's political discourse, and
encouraged him to give reminiscences of old days. Joe told a few
inimitable western stories, and before the cozy little meal was
finished Mrs. Winthrop, though against her will, was feeling the
compelling force of David's winning sweetness. The sound of a distant
band hurried them from the table to the balcony.

"They've certainly got a fair showing of floating banners and
transformations," said Joe.

As the procession came nearer the face of the hardy ranchman flushed
crimson and his eyes flashed dangerously. He made a quick motion as
if to obstruct David's vision, but the young candidate had already
seen. He stood as if at bay, his face pale, his eyes riveted on those
floating banners which bore in flaming letters the inscriptions:

"The father of David Dunne died in state prison!"

"His mother was a washerwoman!"




CHAPTER VI


The others were stricken into shocked silence which they were too
stunned for the moment to break. It was Fletcher who recovered first,
but then Fletcher was the only one present who did not know that the
words had struck home.

"We mustn't wait another moment, David," he said emphatically, "to get
out sweeping denials and--"

"We can't," said David wearily. "It is true."

"Oh," responded Fletcher lamely.

There was another silence. Something in David's voice and manner had
made the silence still more constrained.

"I'll go down and smash their banners!" muttered Joe, who had not
dared to look in David's direction.

Mr. Winthrop restrained him.

"The matter will take care of itself," he counseled.

It is mercifully granted that the intensity of present suffering is
not realized. Only in looking back comes the pang, and the wonder at
the seemingly passive endurance.

Again David's memory was bridging the past to unveil that vivid
picture of the patient-eyed woman bending over the tub, and the pity
for her was hurting him more than the cruel banner which was flaunting
the fact before a jeering, applauding crowd.

Mrs. Winthrop gave him a covert glance. She had great pride in her
lineage, and her well-laid plans for her daughter's future did not
include David Dunne in their scope, but she was ever responsive to
distress.

Before the look in his eyes every sensation save that of sympathy left
her, and she went to him as she would have gone to a child of her own
that had been hurt.

"David," she said tenderly, laying her hand on his arm, "any woman in
the world might be glad to take in washing to bring up a boy to be
such a man as you are!"

Deeply moved and surprised, he looked into her brimming eyes and met
there the look he had sometimes seen in the eyes of his mother, of
M'ri, and once in the eyes of Janey. Moved by an irresistible impulse,
he stooped and kissed her.

The situation was relieved of its tenseness.

"I think, Joe," said David, speaking collectedly, "we had better go to
headquarters. Knowles will be looking for me."

"Sure," assented Joe, eager to get into action.

"Carey," said David in a low voice, as he was leaving.

As she turned to him, an impetuous rush of new life leaped torrent-like
in his heart. Her eyes met his slowly, and for a moment he felt a
pleasure acute with the exquisiteness of pain. Such sensations are
usually transient, and in another moment he had himself well in hand.

"I want to say good night," he said quietly, "and--"

"Will you come here to-morrow at eleven?" she asked hurriedly. "There
is something I want to say to you."

"I know that you are sorry for me."

"That isn't what I mean to say."

A wistful but imperious message was flashed to him from her eyes.

"I will come," he replied gravely.

When he reached headquarters he found the committee dismayed and
distracted. Like Wilder, they counseled a sweeping denial, but David
was firm.

"It is true," he reiterated.

"It will cost us the vote of a certain element," predicted the
chairman, "and we haven't one to spare."

David listened to a series of similar sentiments until Knowles--a new
Knowles--came in. The usual blank placidity of his face was rippled by
radiant exultation.

"David," he announced, "before that parade started to-night I had made
out another conservative estimate, and thought I could pull you
through by a slight majority. Now, it's different. While you may lose
some votes from the 'near-silk stocking' class, yet for every vote so
lost hundreds will rally to you. That all men are created equal is
still a truth held to be self-evident. The spark of the spirit that
prompted the Declaration of Independence is always ready to be fanned
to a flame, and the Democrats have furnished us the fans in their
flying pennants."

David found no balm in this argument. All the wounds in his heart were
aching, and he could not bring his thoughts to majorities. He passed a
night of nerve-racking strain. The jeopardy of election did not
concern him. That night at the dinner party he had realized that he
had a formidable rival in Fletcher, who had a place firmly fixed in
the Winthrop household. Still, against odds, he had determined to woo
and win Carey.

He had thought to tell her of his father's imprisonment under
softening influences. To have it flashed ruthlessly upon her in such a
way, and at such a time, made him shrink from asking her to link her
fate with his, and he decided to put her resolutely out of his life.

Unwillingly, he went to keep his appointment with her the next
morning. He also dreaded an encounter with Mrs. Winthrop. He felt that
the reaction from her moment of womanly pity would strand her still
farther on the rocks of her worldliness. He was detained on his way to
the hotel so that it was nearly twelve when he arrived. It was a
relief to find Carey alone. There was an appealing look in her eyes;
but David felt that he could bear no expression of sympathy, and he
trusted she would obey the subtle message flashed from his own.

With keen insight she read his unspoken appeal, but a high courage
dwelt in the spirit of the little Puritan of colonial ancestry, and
she summoned its full strength.

"David," she asked, "did you think I was ignorant of your early life
until I read those banners last night?"

"I thought," he said, flushing and taken by surprise, "that you might
have long ago heard something, but to have it recalled in so
sensational a way when you were entertaining me at dinner--"

[Illustration: "_It was a relief to find Carey alone_"]

"David, the first day I met you, when I was six years old, Mrs.
Randall told us of your father. I didn't know just what a prison was,
but I supposed it something very grand, and it widened the halo of
romance that my childish eyes had cast about you. The morning after
you had nominated Mr. Hume I saw your aunt at the hotel, and she told
me, for she said some day I might hear it from strangers and not
understand. When I saw those banners it was not so much sympathy for
you that distressed me; I was thinking of your mother, and regretting
that she could not be alive to hear you speak, and see what her
bravery had done for you."

David had to summon all his control and his recollection of her
Virginia ancestors to refrain from telling her what was in his heart.
Mrs. Winthrop helped him by her entrance at this crucial point.

"Good morning, David," she said suavely. "Carey, Fletcher is waiting
for you at the elevator. Your father stopped him. I told him you would
be out directly."

"I had an engagement to drive with him," explained Carey. "I thought
you would come earlier."

"I am due at a committee meeting," he said, in a courteous but aloof
manner.

"We start in the morning, you know," she reminded him. "Won't you dine
here with us to-night?"

"I am sorry," he refused. "It will be impossible."

"Arthur is going to a club for luncheon," said Mrs. Winthrop, when
Carey had gone into the adjoining room, "and I shall be alone unless
you will take pity on my loneliness. I won't detain you a moment after
luncheon."

"Thank you," he replied abstractedly.

She smiled at the reluctance in his eyes.

"David is going to stay to luncheon with me," she announced to Carey
as she came into the sitting room.

David winced at the huge bunch of violets fastened to her muff. He
remembered with a pang that Fletcher had left him that morning to go
to a florist's. After she had gone Mrs. Winthrop turned suddenly
toward him, as he was gazing wistfully at the closed door.

"David," she asked directly, "why did you refuse our invitation to
dine to-night?"

"Why--you see--Mrs. Winthrop--with so many engagements--there is a
factory meeting at five--"

"David, you are floundering! That is not like the frankly spoken boy
we used to know at Maplewood. I kept you to luncheon to tell you some
news that even Carey doesn't know yet. Mrs. Randall has written
insisting that we spend a week at Maplewood before we go West. As we
are in no special haste, I shall accept her hospitality."

David made no reply, and she continued:

"You are going home the day before election?"

"Yes, Mrs. Winthrop," he replied.

"We will go down with you, and I hope you will be neighborly while we
are in the country."

The bewildered look in his eyes deepened, and then a heartrending
solution of her graciousness came to him. Fletcher and Carey were
doubtless engaged, and this fact made Mrs. Winthrop feel secure in
extending hospitality to him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Winthrop," he said, a little bitterly. "You are very
kind."

"David," she asked, giving him a searching look. "What is the matter?
I thought you would be pleased at the thought of our spending a week
among you all."

He made a quick, desperate decision.

"Mrs. Winthrop," he asked earnestly, "may I speak to you quite openly
and honestly?"

"David Dunne, you couldn't speak any other way," she asserted, with a
gay little laugh.

"I love Carey!"




CHAPTER VII


This information seemingly conveyed no startling intelligence.

"Well," replied Mrs. Winthrop, evidently awaiting a further
statement.

"I haven't tried to win her love, nor have I told her that I love her,
because I knew that in your plans for her future you had never
included me. I know what you think about family, and I don't want to
make ill return for the courtesy and kindness you and Mr. Winthrop
have always shown me."

"David, you have one rare trait--gratitude. I did have plans for
Carey--plans built on the basis of 'family'; but I have learned from
you that there are other things, like the trait I mentioned, for
instance, that count more than lineage. Before we went abroad I knew
Carey was interested in you, with the first flutter of a young girl's
fancy, and I was secretly antagonistic to that feeling. But last
night, David, I came to feel differently. I envied your mother when I
read those banners. If I had a son like you, I'd feel honored to take
in washing or anything else for him."

At the look of ineffable sadness in his eyes her tears came.

"David," she said gently, after a pause, "if you can win Carey's love,
I shall gladly give my consent."

He thanked her incoherently, and was seized with an uncontrollable
longing to get away--to be alone with this great, unbelievable
happiness. In realization of his mood, she left him under pretext of
ordering the luncheon. On her return she found him exuberant, in a
flow of spirits and pleasantry.

"Mrs. Winthrop," he said earnestly, as he was taking his departure, "I
am not going to tell Carey just yet that I love her."

"As you wish, David. I shall not mention our conversation."

She smiled as the door closed upon him.

"Tell her! I wonder if he doesn't know that every time he looks at
her, or speaks her name, he tells her. But I suppose he has some
foolish mannish pride about waiting until he is governor."

When David, in a voice vibrant with new-found gladness, finished an
eloquent address to a United Band of Workmen, he found Mr. Winthrop
waiting for him.

"I was sent to bring you to the hotel to dine with us, David. My wife
told me of your conversation."

Noting the look of apprehension in David's eyes, he continued:

"Every time a suitor for Carey has crossed our threshold I've turned
cold at the thought of relinquishing my guardianship. With you it is
different; I can only quote Carey's childish remark--'with David I
would have no afraidments.'"

A touch upon his shoulder prevented David's reply. He turned to find
Joe and Fletcher.

"Knowles has been looking for you everywhere. He wants you to come to
headquarters at once."

"Is it important?" asked David hesitatingly.

"Important! Knowles! Say, David, have you forgotten that you are
running for governor?"

Winthrop laughed appreciatively.

"Go back to Knowles, David, and come to us when you can. We have no
iron-clad rules as to hours. Go with him, Joe, to be sure he doesn't
forget where he is going. Come with me, Fletcher."

"It's too late to call now," remonstrated Joe, when David had finally
made his escape from headquarters.

David muttered that time was made for slaves, and increased his pace.
When they reached the hotel Joe refused to go to the Winthrop's
apartment.

David found Carey alone in the sitting room.

"David," she asked, after one glance into his eyes, "what has changed
you? Good news from Mr. Knowles?"

"No, Carey," he replied, his eyes growing luminous. "It was something
your mother said to me this morning."

"Oh, I am glad. What was it she said?"

"She told me," he evaded, "that you were going to visit the
Randalls."

"And that is what makes you look so--cheered?" she persisted.

"No, Carey. May I tell you at two o'clock in the afternoon, the day
after election?"

She laughed delightedly.

"That sounds like our childhood days. You used to put notes in the old
apple tree--do you remember?--asking Janey and me to meet you two
hours before sundown at the end of the picket fence."

Further confidential conversation was prevented by the entrance of the
others. Joe had been captured, and Mrs. Winthrop had ordered a supper
served in the rooms.

"Carey," asked her mother softly, when they were alone that night,
"did David tell you what a cozy little luncheon we had?"

"He told me, mother, that you said something to him that made him very
happy, but he would not tell me what it was."

Something in her mother's gaze made Carey lift her violets as a shield
to her face.

"She knows!" thought Mrs. Winthrop. "But does she care?"




CHAPTER VIII


At two o'clock on the day after David Dunne had been elected governor
by an overwhelming majority, he reined up at the open gate at the end
of the maple drive. His heart beat faster at the sight of the regal
little figure awaiting him. Her coat, furs, and hat were all of
white.

He helped her into the carriage and seated himself beside her.

"Have you been waiting long, and are you dressed quite warmly?" he
asked anxiously.

"Yes, indeed; I thought you might keep me waiting at the gate, so I
put on my furs."

The drive went on through the grounds to a sloping pasture, where it
became a rough roadway. The day was perfect. The sharp edges of
November were tempered by a bright sun, and the crisp air was
possessed of a profound quiet. When the pastoral stretches ended in
the woods, David stopped suddenly.

"It must have been just about here," he said, reminiscently, as he
hitched the horse to a tree and held out his hand to Carey. They
walked on into the depths of the woods until they came to a fallen
tree.

"Let us sit here," he suggested.

She obeyed in silence.

An early frost had snatched the glory from the trees, whose few brown
and sere leaves hung disconsolately on the branches. High above them
was an occasional skirmishing line of wild ducks. The deep stillness
was broken only by the scattering of nuts the scurrying squirrels were
harvesting, by the cry of startled wood birds, or by the wistful note
of a solitary, distant quail.

"Do you remember that other--that first day we came here?" he asked.

She glanced up at him quickly.

"Is this really the place where we came and you told me stories?"

"You were only six years old," he reminded her. "It doesn't seem
possible that you should remember."

"It was the first time I had ever been in any kind of woods," she
explained, "and it was the first time I had ever played with a
grown-up boy. For a long time afterward, when I teased mother for a
story, she would tell me of 'The Day Carey Met David.'"

"And do you remember nothing more about that day?"

"Oh, yes; you made us some little chairs out of red sticks, and you
drew me here in a cart."

"Can't you remember when you first laid eyes on me?"

"No--yes, I remember. You drove a funny old horse, and I saw you
coming when I was waiting at the gate."

"Yes, you were at the gate," he echoed, with a caressing note in his
voice. "You were dressed in white, as you are to-day, and that was my
first glimpse of the little princess. And because she was the only one
I had ever known, I thought of her for years as a princess of my
imagination who had no real existence."

"But afterwards," she asked wistfully, "you didn't think of me as an
imaginary person, did you?"

"Yes; you were hardly a reality until--"

"Until the convention?" she asked disappointedly.

"No; before that. It was in South America, when I began to write my
book, that you came to life and being in my thoughts. The tropical
land, the brilliant sunshine, the purple nights, the white stars, the
orchids, the balconies looking down upon fountained courts, all
invoked you. You answered, and crept into my book, and while we--you
and I--were writing it, it came to me suddenly and overwhelmingly that
the little princess was a living, breathing person, a woman who mayhap
would read my book some day and feel that it belonged to her. It was
so truly hers that I did not think it necessary to write the
dedication page. And she did read the book and she did know--didn't
she?"

He looked down into her face, which had grown paler but infinitely
more lovely.

"David, I didn't dare know. I wanted to think it was so."

"Carey," his voice came deep and strong, his eyes beseeching, "we were
prince and princess in that enchanted land of childish dreams. Will
you make the dream a reality?"

                  *       *       *       *       *

"When, David," she asked him, "did you know that you loved, not the
little princess, but me, Carey?"

"You make the right distinction in asking me when I _knew_ I loved
you. I loved you always, but I didn't know that I loved you, or how
much I loved you, until that night we sat before the fire at the
Bradens'."

"And, David, tell me what mother said that day after the parade?"

"She told me I had her consent to ask you--this!"

"And why, David, did you wait until to-day?"

"The knowledge that you were coming back here to Maplewood brought the
wish to make a reality of another dream--to meet you at the place
where I first saw you--to bring you here, where you clung to me for
the protection that is henceforth always yours. And now, Carey, it is
my turn to ask you a question. When did you first love me?"

[Illustration: "_'Carey, will you make the dream a reality?'_"]

"That first day I met you--here in the woods. My dream and my prince
were always realities to me."




CHAPTER IX


The governor was indulging in the unwonted luxury of solitude in
his private sanctum of the executive offices. The long line of
politicians, office seekers, committees, and reporters had passed,
and he was supposed to have departed also, but after his exit he had
made a detour and returned to his private office.

Then he sat down to face the knottiest problem that had as yet
confronted him in connection with his official duties. An important
act of the legislature awaited his signature or veto. Various pressing
matters called for immediate action, but they were mere trifles
compared to the issue pending upon an article he had read in a
bi-weekly paper from one of the country districts. The article stated
that a petition was being circulated to present to the governor,
praying the pardon and release of Jud Brumble. Then had begun the
great conflict in the mind of David Dunne, the "governor who could do
no wrong." It was not a conflict between right and wrong that was
being waged, for Jud had been one to the prison born.

David reviewed the series of offenses Jud had perpetrated, punishment
for which had ever been evaded or shifted to accomplices. He recalled
the solemn promise the offender had made him long ago when, through
David's efforts, he had been acquitted--a promise swiftly broken and
followed by more daring transgressions, which had culminated in one
enormous crime. He had been given the full penalty--fifteen years--a
sentence in which a long-suffering community had rejoiced.

Jud had made himself useful at times to a certain gang of ward heelers
and petty politicians, who were the instigators of this petition,
which they knew better than to present themselves. Had they done so,
David's course would have been plain and easy; but the petition was to
be conveyed directly and personally to the governor, so the article
read, by the prisoner's father, Barnabas Brumble.

By this method of procedure the petitioners showed their cunning as
well as their knowledge of David Dunne. They knew that his sense of
gratitude was as strong as his sense of accurate justice, and that to
Barnabas he attributed his first start in life; that he had, in fact,
literally blazed the political trail that had led him from a country
lawyer to the governorship of his state.

There were other ties, other reasons, of which these signers knew not,
that moved David to heed a petition for release should it be
presented.

Again he seemed to see his mother's imploring eyes and to hear her
impressive voice. Again he felt around his neck the comforting, chubby
arms of the criminal's little sister. Her youthful guilelessness and
her inherent goodness had never recognized evil in her wayward
brother, and she would look confidently to "Davey" for service, as she
had done in the old days of country schools and meadow lanes.

On the other hand, he, David Dunne, had taken a solemn oath to do his
duty, and his duty to the people, in the name of justice, was clear.
He owed it to them to show no leniency to Jud Brumble.

So he hovered between base ingratitude to the man who had made
him, and who had never before asked a favor, and non-fulfillment of
duty to his people. It was a wage of head and heart. There had never
been moral compromises in his code. There had ever been a right and
a wrong--plain roads, with no middle course or diverging paths, but
now in his extremity he sought some means of evading the direct
issue. He looked for the convenient loophole of technicality--an
irregularity in the trial--but his legal knowledge forbade this
consideration after again going over the testimony and evidence of the
trial. The attorney for the defense had been compelled to admit
that his client had had a square deal. If only the petition might
be brought in the usual way, and presented to the pardon board, it
would not be allowed to reach the governor, as there was nothing in
the case to warrant consideration, but that was evidently not to be
the procedure. Barnabas would come to him and ask for Jud's release,
assuming naturally that his request would be willingly granted.

If he pardoned Jud, all the popularity of the young governor would not
screen him from the public censure. One common sentiment of outrage
had been awakened by the crime, and the criminal had been universally
repudiated, but it was not from public censure or public criticism
that this young man with the strong under jaw shrank, but from the
knowledge that he would be betraying a trust. Gratitude and duty
pointed in different directions this time.

With throbbing brain and racked nerves he made his evening call upon
Carey, who had come to be a clearing house for his troubles and who
was visiting the Bradens. She looked at him to-night with her eyes
full of the adoration a young girl gives to a man who has forged his
way to fame.

He responded to her greeting abstractedly, and then said abruptly:

"Carey, I am troubled to-night!"

"I knew it before you came, David. I read the evening papers."

"What!" he exclaimed in despair. "It's true, then! I have not seen the
papers to-night."

She brought him the two evening papers of opposite politics. In
glowing headlines the Democratic paper told in exaggerated form the
story of his early life, his humble home, his days of struggle, his
start in politics, and his success, due to the father of the hardened
criminal. Would the governor do his duty and see that law and order
were maintained, or would he sacrifice the people to his personal
obligations? David smiled grimly as he reflected that either course
would be equally censured by this same paper.

He took up the other journal, the organ of his party, which stated the
facts very much as the other paper had done, and added that Barnabas
Brumble was en route to the capital city for the purpose of asking a
pardon for his son. The editor, in another column, briefly and firmly
expressed his faith in the belief that David Dunne would be stanch in
his views of what was right and for the public welfare.

There was one consolation; neither paper had profaned by public
mention the love of his boyhood days.

"What shall I do! What should I do!" he asked himself in desperation.

"I know what you will do," said Carey, quickly reading the unspoken
words.

"What?"

"You will do, as you always do--what you believe to be right. David,
tell me the story of those days."

So from the background of his recollections he brought forward vividly
a picture of his early life, a story she had heard only from others.
He told her, too, of his boyish fancy for Janey.

There was silence when he had finished. Carey looked into the
flickering light of the open fire with steady, musing eyes. It did not
hurt her in the least that he had had a love of long ago. It made him
but the more interesting, and appealed to her as a pretty and fitting
romance in his life.

"It seems so hard, either way, David," she said looking up at him in a
sympathetic way. "To follow the dictates of duty is so cold and cruel
a way, yet if you follow the dictates of your heart your conscience
will accuse you. But you will, when you have to act, David, do what
you believe to be right, and abide by the consequences. Either way,
dear, is going to bring you unhappiness."

"Which do you believe the right way, Carey?" he asked, looking
searchingly into her mystic eyes.

"David," she replied helplessly, "I don't know! The more I think about
it, the more complicated the decision seems."

They discussed the matter at length, and he went home comforted by the
thought that there was one who understood him, and who would abide in
faith by whatever decision he made.

The next day, at the breakfast table, on the street, in his office, in
the curious, questioning faces of all he encountered, he read the
inquiry he was constantly asking himself and to which he had no answer
ready. When he finally reached his office he summoned his private
secretary.

"Major, don't let in any more people than is absolutely necessary
to-day. I will see no reporters. You can tell them that no petition or
request for the pardon of Jud Bramble has been received, if they ask,
and oh, Major!"

The secretary turned expectantly.

"If Barnabas Brumble comes, of course he is to be admitted at once."

Later in the morning the messenger to the governor stood at the window
of the business office, idly looking out.

"Dollars to doughnuts," he exclaimed suddenly and confidently, "that
this is Barnabas Brumble coming up the front walk!"

The secretary hastened to the window. A grizzled old man in
butternut-colored, tightly buttoned overcoat, and carrying a telescope
bag, was ascending the steps.

"I don't know why you think so," said the secretary resentfully to the
boy. "Barnabas Brumble isn't the only farmer in the world. Sometimes,"
he added, pursuing a train of thought beyond the boy's knowledge, "it
seems as if no one but farmers came into this capitol nowadays."

A few moments later one of the guards ushered into the executive
office the old man carrying the telescope. The secretary caught the
infection of the boy's belief.

"What can I do for you?" he asked courteously.

"I want to see the guvner," replied the old man in a curt tone.

"Your name?" asked the secretary.

"Barnabas Brumble," was the terse response.

He had not read the newspapers for a week past, and so he could hardly
know the importance attached to his name in the ears of those
assembled. The click of the typewriters ceased, the executive clerk
looked quickly up from his papers, the messenger assumed a triumphant
pose, and the janitor peered curiously in from an outer room.

"Come this way, Mr. Brumble," said the secretary deferentially, as he
passed to the end of the room and knocked at a closed door.

David Dunne knew, when he heard the knock, to whom he would open the
door, and he was glad the strain of suspense was ended. But when he
looked into the familiar face a host of old memories crowded in upon
his recollection, and obliterated the significance of the call.

"Uncle Barnabas!" he said, extending a cordial hand to the visitor,
while his stern, strong face softened under his slow, sweet smile.
Then he turned to his secretary.

"Admit no one else, Major."

David took the telescope from his guest and set it on the table,
wondering if it contained the "documents in evidence."

"Take off your coat, Uncle Barnabas. They keep it pretty warm in
here!"

"I callate they do--in more ways than one," chuckled Barnabas,
removing his coat. "I hed to start purty early this mornin', when it
was cool-like. Wal, Dave, times has changed! To think of little Dave
Dunne bein' guvner! I never seemed to take it in till I come up them
front steps."

The governor laughed.

"Sometimes I don't seem to take it in myself, but _you_ ought to,
Uncle Barnabas. You put me here!"

As he spoke he unlocked a little cabinet and produced a bottle and a
couple of glasses.

"Wal, I do declar, ef you don't hev things as handy as a pocket in a
shirt! Good stuff, Dave! More warmin' than my old coat, I reckon, but
say, Dave, what do you s'pose I hev got in that air telescope?"

David winced. In olden times the old man ever came straight to the
point, as he was doing now.

"Why, what is it, Uncle Barnabas?"

"Open it!" directed the old man laconically.

With the feeling that he was opening his coffin, David unstrapped the
telescope and lifted the cover. A little exclamation of pleasure
escaped him. The telescope held big red apples, and it held nothing
more. David quickly bit into one.

"I know from just which particular tree these come," he said, "from
that humped, old one in the corner of the orchard nearest the house."

"Yes," allowed Barnabas, "that's jest the one--the one under which you
and her allers set and purtended you were studyin' your lessons."

David's eyes grew luminous in reminiscence.

"I haven't forgotten the tree--or her--or the old days, Uncle
Barnabas."

"I knowed you hadn't, Dave!"

Again David's heart sank at the confidence in the tone which betokened
the faith reposed, but he would give the old man a good time anyway
before he took his destiny by the throat.

"Wouldn't you like to go through the capitol?" he asked.

"I be goin'. The feller that brung me up here sed he'd show me
through."

"I'll show you through," said David decisively, and together they went
through the places of interest in the building, the governor as proud
as a newly domiciled man showing off his possessions. At last they
came to the room where in glass cases reposed the old, unfurled battle
flags. The old man stopped before one case and looked long and
reverently within.

"Which was your regiment, Uncle Barnabas?"

"Forty-seventh Infantry. I kerried that air flag at the Battle of the
Wilderness."

David called to a guard and obtained a key to the case. Opening it, he
bade the old man take out the flag.

With trembling hands Barnabas took out the flag he had followed when
his country went to war. He gazed at it in silence, and then restored
it carefully to its place. As they walked away, he brushed his coat
sleeve hastily across his dimmed eyes.

David consulted his watch.

"It's luncheon time, Uncle Barnabas. We'll go over to my hotel. The
executive mansion is undergoing repairs."

"I want more'n a lunch, Dave! I ain't et nuthin' sence four o'clock
this mornin'."

"I'll see that you get enough to eat," laughed David.

In the lobby of the hotel a reporter came quickly up to them.

"How are you, governor?" he asked, with his eyes fastened falcon-like
on Barnabas.

David returned the salutation and presented his companion.

"Mr. Brumble from Lafferton?" asked the reporter, with an insinuating
emphasis on the name of the town.

"Yes," replied the old man in surprise. "I don't seem to reckleck
seein' you before."

"I never met you, but I have heard of you. May I ask what your
business in the city is, Mr. Brumble?"

The old man gave him a keen glance from beneath his shaggy brows.

"Wal, I don't know as thar's any law agin your askin'! I came to see
the guvner."

David, with a laugh of pure delight at the discomfiture of the
reporter, led the way to the dining room.

"You're as foxy as ever, Uncle Barnabas. You routed that newspaper man
in good shape."

"So that's what he was! I didn't know but he was one of them
three-card-monty sharks. Wal, I s'pose it's his trade to ask
questions."

Barnabas' loquacity always ceased entirely at meal times, so his
silence throughout the luncheon was not surprising to David.

"Wal, Dave," he said as he finished, "ef this is your lunch I'd hate
to hev to eat what you'd call dinner. I never et so much before at one
settin'!"

"We'll go over to the club now and have a smoke," suggested David.
"Then you can go back to my office with me and see what I have to
undergo every afternoon."

At the club they met several of David's friends--not politicians--who
met Barnabas with courtesy and composure. When they returned to
David's private office Barnabas was ensconced comfortably in an
armchair while David listened with patience to the long line of
importuners, each receiving due consideration. The last interview was
not especially interesting and Barnabas' attention was diverted. His
eyes fell on a newspaper, which he picked up carelessly. It was the
issue of the night before, and his own name was conspicuous in big
type. He read the article through and returned the paper to its place
without being observed by David, whose back was turned to him.

"Wal, Dave," he said, when the last of the line had left the room, "I
used ter think I'd ruther do enything than be a skule teacher, but I
swan ef you don't hev it wuss yet!"

David made no response. The excitement of his boyish pleasure in
showing Uncle Barnabas about had died away as he listened to the
troubles and demands of his callers, and now the recollection of the
old man's errand confronted him in full force.

Barnabas looked at him keenly.

"Dave," he said slowly, "'t ain't no snap you hev got! I never knowed
till to-day jest what it meant to you. I'm proud of you, Dave! I
wish--I wish you hed been my son!"

The governor arose impetuously and crossed the room.

"I would have been, Uncle Barnabas, if she had not cared for Joe!"

"I know it, Dave, but you hev a sweet little gal who will make you
happy."

The governor's face lighted in a look of exquisite happiness.

"I have, Uncle Barnabas. We will go to see her this evening."

"I'd like to see her, sartain. Hain't seen her sence the night you
was elected. And, Dave," with a sheepish grin, "I'm a-goin' to git
spliced myself."

"What? No! May I guess, Uncle Barnabas--Miss Rhody?"

"Dave, you air a knowin' one. Yes, it's her! Whenever we set down to
our full table I got to thinkin' of that poor little woman a-settin'
down alone, and I've never yet knowed a woman livin' alone to feed
right. They allers eat bean soup or prunes, and call it a meal."

"I am more glad than I can tell you, Uncle Barnabas, and I shall
insist on giving the bride away. But what will Penny think about some
one stepping in?"

"Wal, Dave, I'll allow I wuz skeered to tell Penny, and it tuk a hull
lot of bracin' to do it, and what do you suppose she sed? She sez,
'I've bin wantin' tew quit these six years, and now, thank the Lord,
I've got the chance.'"

"Why, what in the world did she want to leave for?"

"I guess you'll be surprised when I tell you. To marry Larimy
Sasser!"

"Uncle Larimy! She'll scour him out of house and home," laughed
David.

"We'll hev both weddin's to the same time. Joe and Janey are a-comin',
and we'll hev a grand time. I hain't much on the write, Dave, and I've
allers meant to see you here in this great place. Some of the boys sez
to me: 'Mebby Dave's got stuck on himself and his job by this time,
and you'll hev to send in yer keerd by a nigger fust afore you kin see
him,' but I sez, 'No! Not David Dunne! He ain't that kind and never
will be.' So when I go back I kin tell them how you showed me all over
the place, and tuk me to eat at a hotel and to that air stylish place
where I wuz treated like a king by yer friends. I've never found you
wantin', Dave, and I never expect to!"

"Uncle Barnabas," began David, "I--"

His voice suddenly failed him.

"See here, Dave! I didn't know nuthin' about that," pointing to the
newspaper, "until a few minutes ago. I sed tew hum that I wuz a-comin'
to see how Dave run things, and ef them disreptible associates of
Jud's air a-gittin' up some fool paper, I don't know it! Ef they do
send it in, don't you dare sign it! Why, I wouldn't hev that boy outen
prison fer nuthin'. He's different from what he used to be, Dave. He
got so low he would hev to reach up ter touch bottom. He's ez low ez
they git, and he's dangerous. I didn't know an easy minute fer the
last two years afore he wuz sent up, so keep him behind them bars fer
fear he'll dew somethin' wuss when he gits out. Don't you dare sign no
petition, Dave!"

Tears of relief sprang into the strong eyes of the governor.

"Why, Dave," said the old man in shocked tones, "you didn't go fer to
think fer a minute I'd ask you to let him out cause he wuz my son?
Even ef I hed a wanted him out, and Lord knows I don't, I'd not ask
you to do somethin' wrong, no more'n I'd bring dishoner to that old
flag I held this mornin'!"

David grasped his hand.

"Uncle Barnabas!"

His voice broke with emotion. Then he murmured: "We'll go to see
_her_, now."

As they passed out into the corridor a reporter hastened up to them.

"Governor," he asked, with impudent directness, "are you going to
pardon Jud Bramble?"

Before David could reply, Barnabas stepped forward:

"Young feller, thar hain't no pardon ben asked fer Jud Brumble, and
what's more, thar hain't a-goin' to be none asked--not by me. I come
down here to pay my respecks to the guvner, and to bring him a few
apples, and you kin say so ef you wanter!"

When Carey came into the library where her two callers awaited her,
one glance into the divine light of David's deepening, glowing eyes
told her what she wanted to know.

With a soft little cry she went to Barnabas, who was holding out his
hand in welcome. Impulsively her lips were pressed against his
withered cheek, and he took her in his arms as he might have taken
Janey.

"Why, Carey!" he said delightedly, "Dave's little gal!"



                  *       *       *       *       *



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