wife. She thought you ought to know
he was there."

"Yes, of course. Well, tell her to tell him to come back."

"Mollie said she tried to have him come back, but that he said, no,
thank you, he'd rather not. He was going home where his father could
find him if he should ever want him. Mr. Higgins, we--we CAN'T let him
go off like that. Why, the child would die up there alone in those
dreadful woods, even if he could get there in the first place--which I
very much doubt."

"Yes, of course, of course," muttered Higgins, with a thoughtful frown.
"There's his letter, too. Say!" he added, brightening, "what'll you bet
that letter won't fetch him? He seems to think the world and all of his
daddy. Here," he directed, turning to Mrs. Holly, "you tell my wife to
tell--better yet, you telephone Mollie yourself, please, and tell her
to tell the boy we've got a letter here for him from his father, and he
can have it if he'll come back.".

"I will, I will," called Mrs. Holly, over her shoulder, as she hurried
into the house. In an unbelievably short time she was back, her face
beaming.

"He's started, so soon," she nodded. "He's crazy with joy, Mollie said.
He even left part of his breakfast, he was in such a hurry. So I guess
we'll see him all right."

"Oh, yes, we'll see him all right," echoed Simeon Holly grimly. "But
that isn't telling what we'll do with him when we do see him."

"Oh, well, maybe this letter of his will help us out on that,"
suggested Higgins soothingly. "Anyhow, even if it doesn't, I'm not
worrying any. I guess some one will want him--a good healthy boy like
that."

"Did you find any money on the body?" asked Streeter.

"A little change--a few cents. Nothing to count. If the boy's letter
doesn't tell us where any of their folks are, it'll be up to the town
to bury him all right."

"He had a fiddle, didn't he? And the boy had one, too. Wouldn't they
bring anything?" Streeter's round blue eyes gleamed shrewdly.

Higgins gave a slow shake of his head.

"Maybe--if there was a market for 'em. But who'd buy 'em? There ain't a
soul in town plays but Jack Gurnsey; and he's got one. Besides, he's
sick, and got all he can do to buy bread and butter for him and his
sister without taking in more fiddles, I guess. HE wouldn't buy 'em."

"Hm--m; maybe not, maybe not," grunted Streeter. "An', as you say, he's
the only one that's got any use for 'em here; an' like enough they
ain't worth much, anyway. So I gu