she sighed to herself, as she picked up her dusting-cloth.

After supper that night, Simeon Holly and his wife again sat on
the kitchen porch, resting from the labor of the day. Simeon's
eyes were closed. His wife's were on the dim outlines of the
shed, the barn, the road, or a passing horse and wagon. David,
sitting on the steps, was watching the moon climb higher and
higher above the tree-tops. After a time he slipped into the
house and came out with his violin.

At the first long-drawn note of sweetness, Simeon Holly opened
his eyes and sat up, stern-lipped. But his wife laid a timid hand
on his arm.

"Don't say anything, please," she entreated softly. "Let him
play, just for to-night. He's lonesome--poor little fellow." And
Simeon Holly, with a frowning shrug of his shoulders, sat back in
his chair.

Later, it was Mrs. Holly herself who stopped the music by saying:
"Come, David, it's bedtime for little boys. I'll go upstairs with
you." And she led the way into the house and lighted the candle
for him.

Upstairs, in the little room over the kitchen, David found
himself once more alone. As before, the little yellow-white
nightshirt lay over the chair-back; and as before, Mrs. Holly had
brushed away a tear as she had placed it there. As before, too,
the big four-posted bed loomed tall and formidable in the corner.
But this time the coverlet and sheet were turned back