sound of wheels, and of men's excited voices. There came also the
twinkle of lanterns borne by hurrying hands, and the tramp of
shuffling feet. In the window David shivered. There were no wide
sweep of mountain, hill, and valley, no Silver Lake, no restful
hush, no daddy,--no beautiful Things that Were. There was only
the dreary, hollow mockery of the Things they had Become.

Long minutes later, David, with the violin in his arms, lay down
upon the rug, and, for the first time since babyhood, sobbed
himself to sleep--but it was a sleep that brought no rest; for in
it he dreamed that he was a big, white-winged moth pinned with a
star to an ink-black sky.




CHAPTER IV

TWO LETTERS


In the early gray dawn David awoke. His first sensation was the
physical numbness and stiffness that came from his hard bed on
the floor.

"Why, daddy," he began, pulling himself half-erect, "I slept all
night on--" He stopped suddenly, brushing his eyes with the backs
of his hands. "Why, daddy, where--" Then full consciousness came
to him.