brown-coated bird tilted on a twig and sang to them as they passed. The
little throat throbbed and pulsated with eager melody.

Old Tilly listened to the song to its close, then swung round suddenly.
His face was like father's when he got up from his knees at family
prayers.

"That bird seems singing, 'Holy, holy, holy,'" Old Tilly said softly.
"Can't you hear?"

"Yes, I hear," murmured Jot.

The little white house they picked out sat back from the highway in a
nest of lilac bushes. It reminded the boys a very little of home.

"Stop over night? Away from home, be ye? Why, yes, I guess me an' pa
can take you in. One, two--dear land! there's three of ye, ain't there?
Yes, yes, come right in! I couldn't turn three boys away--not three!"

The sweet-faced old woman in the doorway held out both hands
welcomingly. She seemed to get at the history of the three young
knights by some instinctive mind-reading of her own--the boys themselves
said so little. It was the little old lady's sweet voice that ran on
without periods, piecing Old Tilly's brief explanatory words together
skillfully.

"Havin' a holiday, be you? I see. Well, young folks has to have their
outin's. When they git as old as me an' pa, they'll be all innin's!"
she ran on. Suddenly she stooped and surveyed them with a placid
attempt at sternness. "I hope you've all be'n to meetin'?" she cried.