old it is very good." A
single element of disquietude, a solitary, vague unrest disturbs him. He
awaits his Eve with longing, but has no dread of the serpent.

At sight of this young man the most superficial observer would have
paused to take a second look; an artist would have instinctively seized
his pencil or his brush; a scientist would have paused to inquire what
mysterious influences could have produced so finely proportioned a
nature; a philosopher to wonder what would become of him in some sudden
and powerful temptation.

None of these reflections disturbed the mind of the barefooted boy.
Having suppressed his laughter, he tickled the sunburnt neck again. Once
more the hand rose automatically, and once more the boy was almost
strangled with delight. The dreamer was hard to awaken, but his
tormentor had not yet exhausted his resources. No genuine boy is ever
without that fundamental necessity of childhood, a pin, and finding one
somewhere about his clothing, he thrust it into the leg of the plowman.
The sudden sting brought the soaring saint from heaven to earth. In an
instant the mystic was a man, and a strong one, too. He seized the
unsanctified young reprobate with one hand and hoisted him at arm's
length above his head.

"Oh, Uncle Dave, I'll never do it again! Never! Never! Let me down."

Still holding him aloft as a hunter would hold a falcon, the
reincarnated "spirit" laughed long, loud and merrily, the echoes of his
laughter ringing up the valley like a peal from a chime of bells. The
child's fear was needless, for the heart and hands that dealt with him
were as gentle as a woman's. The youth, resembling some old Norse god as
he stood there in the gathering gloom, lowered the child slowly, and
printing a kiss on his cheek, said:

"Thee little pest, thee has no reverence! Thee should never disturb a
child at his play, a bird on his nest nor a man at his prayers."

"But thee was not praying, Uncle Dave," the boy replied. "Thee was only
in another of thy tantrums. The supper has grown cold, the horses are
tired and Shep and I have walked a mile to call thee. Grandmother said
thee had a trance. Tell me what thee has seen in thy visions, Uncle
Dave?"

"God and His angels," said the young mystic softly, falling again into
the mood from which he had been so rudely awakened.

"Angels!" scoffed the young materialist. "If thee was thinking of any
angel at all, I will bet thee it was Dorothy Fraser."

"Tu