had come in from his roving. Again, after seeing the boy soundly
sleeping, the shepherd would arise in the morning to find the bunk
empty.

Sammy Lane, too, had fallen under the charm of the man with the
white hair and poet's face.

Sammy was not so often at the Matthews place after Ollie had gone
to the city. The girl could not have told why. She had a vague
feeling that it was better to stay away. But this feeling did not
prevent her climbing the Old Trail to the Lookout on the shoulder
of Dewey, and she spent hours at the big rock, looking over the
valley to where the smoke from Aunt Mollie's kitchen curled above
the trees. And sometimes, against the sky, she could see a man and
a team moving slowly to and fro in the field back of the house.
When this happened, Sammy always turned quickly away to where the
far off line of hills lay like a long, low cloud against the sky.

Every week the girl rode her brown pony to the Postoffice at the
Forks; and when she had a letter, things were different. She
always stopped then at the Matthews home.

One day when this happened, Dad and Pete were on the ridge above
the Old Trail, just where the north slope of Dewey shades into the
rim of the Hollow. The elder man was seated on the ground in the
shade of an oak, with his back against the trunk of the tree,
while the boy lay full length on the soft grass, looking up into
the green depths of foliage where a tiny brown bird flitted from
bough to bough. In his quaint way, Pete was carrying on a
conversation with his little friend in the tree top, translating