uld speed away to his mountain home, leaving
behind him a man and a woman who seemed to themselves to be listening
to the voice of a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked lad who once played at
their knees and nestled in their arms when the day was done. And here,
too, the Hollys were learning; though the thing thus learned was hidden
deep in their hearts.

It was not long after David's first visit that the boy went again to
"The House that Jack Built," as the Gurnseys called their tiny home.
(Though in reality it had been Jack's father who had built the house.
Jack and Jill, however, did not always deal with realities.) It was not
a pleasant afternoon. There was a light mist in the air, and David was
without his violin.

"I came to--to inquire for the cat--Juliette," he began, a little
bashfully. "I thought I'd rather do that than read to-day," he
explained to Jill in the doorway.

"Good! I'm so glad! I hoped you'd come," the little girl welcomed him.
"Come in and--and see Juliette," she added hastily, remembering at the
last moment that her brother had not looked with entire favor on her
avowed admiration for this strange little boy.

Juliette, roused from her nap, was at first inclined to resent her
visitor's presence. In five minutes, however, she was purring in his
lap.

The conquest of the kitten once accomplished, David looked about him a
little restlessly. He began to wonder why he had come. He wished he had
gone to see Joe Glaspell instead. He wished that Jill would not sit and
stare at him like that. He wished that she would say
something--anything. But Jill, apparently struck dumb with
embarrassment, was nervously twisting the corner of her apron into a
little knot. David tried to recollect what he had talked about a few
days before, and he wondered why he had so enjoyed himself then. He
wished that something would happen--anything!--and then from an inner
room came the sound of a violin.

David raised his head.

"It's Jack," stammered the little girl--who also had been wishing
something would happen. "He plays, same as you do, on the violin."

"Does he?" beamed David. "But--" He paused, listening, a quick frown on
his face.

Over and over the violin was playing a single phrase--and the
variations in the phrase showed the indecision of the fingers and of
the mind that controlled them. Again and again with irritating
sameness, yet with a still more irritating difference, came the
succession of notes. And the