David laughed gleefully.

"And didn't you know?" he asked. "Why, I thought my music would
tell you. I was so happy, so glad! The birds in the trees woke me
up singing, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and the sun came
over the hill there and said, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and
the little tree-branch tapped on my window pane and said "You're
wanted--you're wanted!' And I just had to take up my violin and
tell you about it!"

"But it's Sunday--the Lord's Day," remonstrated the man sternly.

David stood motionless, his eyes questioning.

"Are you quite a heathen, then?" catechised the man sharply.
"Have they never told you anything about God, boy?"

"Oh, 'God'?--of course," smiled David, in open relief. "God wraps
up the buds in their little brown blankets, and covers the roots
with--"

"I am not talking about brown blankets nor roots," interrupted
the man severely. "This is God's day, and as such should be kept
holy."

" 'Holy'?"

"Yes. You should not fiddle nor laugh nor sing."