" exclaimed Mrs. Stanley.

But with further joking and laughing the family began to move about. The
older daughter gave me a hand lamp and showed me the way upstairs to a
little room at the end of the house.

"I think," she said with pleasant dignity, "you will find everything you
need."

I cannot tell with what solid pleasure I rolled into bed or how soundly
and sweetly I slept.

This was the first day of my real adventures.

CHAPTER II. I WHISTLE

When I was a boy I learned after many discouragements to play on a tin
whistle. There was a wandering old fellow in our town who would sit for
hours on the shady side of a certain ancient hotel-barn, and with his
little whistle to his lips, and gently swaying his head to his tune and
tapping one foot in the gravel, he would produce the most wonderful
and beguiling melodies. His favourite selections were very lively; he
played, I remember, "Old Dan Tucker," and "Money Musk," and the tune of
a rollicking old song, now no doubt long forgotten, called "Wait for
the Wagon." I can see him yet, with his jolly eyes half closed, his
lips puckered around the whistle, and his fingers curiously and stiffly
poised over the stops. I am sure I shall never forget the thrill which
his music gave to the heart of a certain barefoot boy.

At length, by means I have long since forgotten, I secured a tin whistle
exactly like Old Tom Madison's and began diligently to practise such
tunes as I knew. I am quite sure now that I must have made a nuisance
of myself, for it soon appeared to be the set purpose of every member
of the family to break up my efforts. Whenever my father saw me with the
whistle to my lips, he would instantly set me at some useful work (oh,
he was an adept in discovering useful work to do--for a boy!). And at
the very sight of my stern aunt I would instantly secrete my whistle
in my blouse and fly for the garret or cellar, like a cat caught in the
cream. Such are the early tribulations of musical genius!

At last I discovered a remote spot on a beam in the hay-barn where,
lighted by a ray of sunlight which came through a crack in the eaves
and pointed a dusty golden finger into that hay-scented interior, I
practised rapturously and to my heart's content upon my tin whistle.
I learned "Money Musk" until I could play it in Old Tom Madison's best
style--even to the last nod and final foot-tap. I turned a certain
church hymn called "Yield Not to Temptation" into somethi