"I used to hear," said the afflicted one. "And I could see, too. Oh,
yes! I haven't forgotten how things look. You know, I'm Lottie Drugg. I
can find my way about. But--but I've lost the echo. I used to hear
_that_ always. I'd run down there to the wharf and shout to the echo,
and it would answer me. But now I've lost it."

Janice squeezed the little hand again. She found herself weeping, and
yet the child did not complain. But it was plainly an effort for her to
speak. Like most victims of complete deafness, it would not be long
before she would be speechless, too. She "mouthed" her words in a
pitiful way.

Blind--deaf--approaching dumbness! The thought made Janice suddenly
seize the child in her arms and hug her, tight.

"Do you love me?" questioned Lottie Drugg, returning the embrace. "I
wish I could hear you. But I can't hear father any more--nor his fiddle;
only when he makes it quiver. Then I know it's crying. Did you know a
fiddle could cry? You come home with me. Father will play the fiddle for
you, and _you_ can hear it."

Janice did not know how to reply. There was so much she wished to say to
this poor little thing! But her quick mind jumped to the conclusion that
the child belonged to the person whom she had heard playing the violin
as she came down from High Street--the unknown musician in the store
above the door of which was the faded sign of "Hopewell Drugg."

She squeezed the little girl's hand again and it seemed to suffice.

"I know the way. My feet are in the path now," said little Lottie,
scuffling her slipper-shod feet about on the narrow footpath. "Yes! I
know the way now. The sun is behind us. Come," and she put forth her
hand, caught Janice's again, and urged her along the bank of the lake to
the foot of the lane down which the girl from Greensboro had wandered.

Up the hill they went, Janice marveling that Lottie could be so
confident of the way. She seldom hesitated, and Janice allowed herself
to be led. Mr. Cross Moore was still smoking his pipe out in front of
his house.

"I calkerlate that child's goin' to be drowned-ed some day," he said
calmly, to Janice. "Jest a marcy that she ain't done it afore now. An'
Hopewell--Huh! him sittin' up there fiddlin'----"

It seemed to Janice as though a spirit of criticism had entered into all
the Poketownites. There was Walky Dexter scoffing at her Uncle Jason;
and here was Selectman Moore criticising the father of little Lottie.
Yet neithe