ing what difficulties must of necessity have been met in this
gracious display of cordiality, Moses, the negro butler from the
Wallifarro household, appeared from the kitchen door, bearing a tray of
cocktails.

It was not until after two keenly effervescent hours of talk, laughter
and dining, when the cigars had been lighted, that Prince came to his
feet.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am not going to pledge the man who is both our
host and guest of honour, because I prefer to propose a sentiment we can
all drink, standing, including himself--I give you the success of his
gallant experiment--the Boy--Boone Wellver--'A toast to the
native-born!'"

They rose amid the sound of chairs scraping back, and once more
McCalloway felt the contraction of his throat and the dimness in his
eyes.

"Gentlemen," he stammered, "I am grateful.... I think the boy is going
to be an American--not only a hillsman--not even only a Kentuckian or a
Southerner--though God knows either would be a proud enough title--but
an American who blends and fuses these fine elements. That, at all
events, is my hope and effort."

He sat down hurriedly--and yet in other days he had spoken with polished
ease at tables where distinguished men and women were his fellow
diners--and it was then that Tom Wallifarro rose.

"This was not to be a formal affair of set speeches," he announced in a
conversational tone, "but there is one more sentiment without which we
would rise leaving the essential thing unsaid. Some one has called these
mountain folk our 'contemporary ancestors'--men of the past living in
our day. This lad is, in that sense, of an older age. When he goes into
the world, he will need such advisors of the newer age as he has had
here in Mr. McCalloway--or at least pale imitations of Mr. McCalloway,
whose place no one can fill. We are here this evening for two pleasant
purposes. To dine with our friend, who could not come to us, and to
found an informal order. The Boone who actually lived two centuries ago
was the godfather of Kentucky.

"Gentlemen, I give you the order of our own founding tonight: The
Godfathers of Boone."

It was of course by coincidence, only, that the climax of that evening's
gathering should have been capped as it was. Probability would have
brought the last guests, whom no one there had expected, at any other
time, but perhaps the threads of destiny do not after all run haphazard.
Possibly it could only be into such a fantast