of these things, you could maybe go to walk more--to-day, and
other days, you know. You said--you didn't have time," he
reminded her.

But Mrs. Holly only shook her head and sighed:--

"Well, well, never mind, little boy. I dare say you meant all
right. You couldn't understand, of course."

And David, after another moment's wistful eyeing of the caressing
fingers, turned about and wandered out onto the side porch. A
minute later, having seated himself on the porch steps, he had
taken from his pocket two small pieces of folded paper. And then,
through tear-dimmed eyes, he read once more his father's letter.

"He said I mustn't grieve, for that would grieve him," murmured
the boy, after a time, his eyes on the far-away hills. "And he
said if I'd play, my mountains would come to me here, and I'd
really be at home up there. He said in my violin were all those
things I'm wanting--so bad!"

With a little choking breath, David tucked the note back into his
pocket and reached for his violin.

Some time later, Mrs. Holly, dusting the chairs in the parlor,
stopped her work, tiptoed to the door, and listened breathlessly.
When she turned back, still later, to her work, her eyes were
wet.

"I wonder why, when he plays, I always get to thinking of--John,"