long."

The little boy unclosed his eyes and looked around on all those
kindly, watching faces.

"Did anybody fire a gun?" he said. "Oh! no. I was only dreaming that I
was hunting with father, and he shot at the beautiful pheasants that
were making such a whirring of wings for me. It was music. When can I
hunt with father, dear gentlemen?"

They all felt the tread of the mighty hunter before the Lord very near
at hand; the hunter whose name is Death.

"There are little tiny birds along the beach," muttered the boy. "They
twitter and run into the surf and back again, and am I one of them? I
must be; for I feel the water cold, and yet I see you all, so kind to
me! Don't whistle for me now; for I don't get much play, gentlemen!
Will the Speaker turn me out if I play with the beach birds just once?
I'm only a little boy working for my mother."

"Dear Uriel," whispered Reybold, "here's Old Beau, to whom you once
spoke angrily. Don't you see him?"

The little boy's eyes came back from far-land somewhere, and he saw
the ruined gamester at his feet.

"Dear Beau," he said, "I can't get off to go home with you. They won't
excuse me, and I give all my money to mother. But you go to the back
gate. Ask for Joyce. She'll give you a nice warm meal every day. Go
with him, Mr. Reybold! If you ask for him it will be all right; for