acquired courage to hunt for wild flowers, though her hand remained
close in David's clasp.

When they returned to the house Carey gave a glowing account of the
expedition.

"Sit down on the steps and rest, children," proposed Mrs. Winthrop,
"while Lucy prepares a little picnic dinner for you."

"What will we do now, David?" appealed Carey, when they were seated on
the porch.

"You mustn't do anything but sit still," admonished her mother.
"You've done more now than you are used to doing in one day."

"Davey will tell us a story," suggested Janey.

"Yes, please, David," urged Carey, coming to him and resting her eyes
on his inquiringly, while her little hand confidently sought his knee.
Instinctively and naturally his fingers closed upon it.

Embarrassed as he was at having a strange audience, he could not
resist the child's appeal.

"She'll like the kind that you don't," he said musingly to Janey, "the
kind about fairies and princes."

"Yes," rejoined Carey.

So he fashioned a tale, partly from recollections of Andersen but
mostly from his own fancy. As his imagination kindled, he forgot where
he was. Inspired by the spellbound interest of the dainty little girl
with the worshiping eyes, he achieved his masterpiece.

"Upon my word," exclaimed Mr. Winthrop, "you are a veritable
Scheherazade! You didn't make up that story yourself?"

"Only part of it," admitted David modestly.

When he and Janey started for home David politely delivered M'ri's
message of invitation for Carey to come to the farm on the morrow to
play.

"It is going to be lovely here," said the little girl happily. "And we
are going to come every summer."

Janey kissed her impulsively. "Good-by, Carey."

"Good-by, Janey. Good-by, David."

"Good-by," he returned cheerily. Looking back, he saw her lips
trembling. His gaze turned in perplexity to Mrs. Winthrop, whose eyes
were dancing. "She expects you to bid her good-by the way Janey did,"
she explained.

"Oh!" said David, reddening, as two baby lips of scarlet were lifted
naturally and expectantly to his.

As they drove away, the light feet of the horse making but little
sound on the smooth road, Mrs. Winthrop's clear treble was wafted
after them.

"One can scarcely believe that his father was a convict and his mother
a washerwoman."

A lump came into the boy's throat. Janey was very quiet on the way
home. When they were alone she said to him, with troubled eyes:

"Davey, is C