nt and then continued, nodding his great shaggy head:

"Man, man, how my old mither greeted for Scotland! I mind how a sprig of
heather would bring the tears to her eyes; and for twenty years I dared
not whistle "Bonnie Doon" or "Charlie Is My Darling" lest it break her
heart. 'Tis a pain you've not had, I'm thinking, Davy."

"We all know the longing for old places and old times," I said.

"No, no, David, it's more than that. It's the wanting and the longing
to see the hills of your own land, and the town where you were born, and
the street where you played, and the house----"

He paused, "Ah, well, it's hard for those who have it."

"But I haven't heard Carlstrom refer to Sweden for years," I said. "Is
it homesickness, or just old age?"

"There ye have it, Davy; the nail right on the head!" exclaimed the
Scotch Preacher. "Is it homesickness, or is he just old and tired?"

With that we fell to talking about Carlstrom, the gunsmith. I have known
him pretty nearly ever since I came here, now more than ten years
ago--and liked him well, too--but it seemed, as Dr. McAlway talked that
evening, as though we were making the acquaintance of quite a new and
wonderful person. How dull we all are! How we need such an artist as the
Scotch Preacher to mould heroes out of the common human clay around us!
It takes a sort of greatness to recognize greatness.

In an hour's time the Scotch Preacher had both Harriet and me much
excited, and the upshot of the whole matter was that I promised to call
on Carlstrom the next day when I went to town.

I scarcely needed the prompting of the Scotch Preacher, for Carlstrom's
gunshop has for years been one of the most interesting places in town
for me. I went to it now with a new understanding.

Afar off I began to listen for Carlstrom's hammer, and presently I heard
the familiar sounds. There were two or three mellow strokes, and I knew
that Carlstrom was making the sparks fly from the red iron. Then the
hammer rang, and I knew he was striking down on the cold steel of the
anvil. It is a pleasant sound to hear.

Carlstrom's shop is just around the corner from the main street. You may
know it by a great weather-beaten wooden gun fastened over the doorway,
pointing in the daytime at the sky, and in the night at the stars. A
stranger passing that way might wonder at the great gun and possibly say
to himself:

"A gunshop! How can a man make a living mending guns in such a peaceful
communi