blazed and crackled and the crimson and orange flames mounted high in
the air and showed our little party, sitting or half lying about it on
blankets. Old Dan, sitting on a great chunk of wood, his lap full of
cats, his violin beside him, and his usual bodyguard of cats and dogs
around him, went far back into his youth and let us know--what probably
he had told no other being since he broke those ties--why he left the
home, the heritage, and the name of his ancestors.

He had been playing on his violin, and then, putting it down, had begun
to tell us about some hunting adventure. The red light danced over his
wrinkled, weather-beaten face and scraggly, grizzled beard; and as I
considered his large, well-shaped head and strongly marked features, it
seemed to me there was something familiar in his countenance. In his
voice a peculiar intonation--I had noticed it many times before--teased
me with suggestions of a voice heard somewhere else.

And presently I remembered.

He turned his face toward me, the firelight fell bright and strong upon
it, that peculiar tone in his voice sounded at just the same instant,
and there flashed upon me the memory of a scene in Boston two years
before. It was in Faneuil Hall, and a great mass of eager,
enthusiastic faces was turned toward the platform, where stood a member
of one of Massachusetts' old and distinguished families. His speech,
full of persuasive fire, had welded his whole audience into one
personality that, for the time being, at least, felt as he felt and
thought as he thought. And the voice of the orator, which had
impressed me by reason of a certain peculiar intonation, was like this
man's voice, and his face had in it much that was like the face of Old
Dan.