of
George's heart into his. Even after George stopped talking and began to
whistle softly in the pause that followed, John Jay lay quite still with
his face hidden in his arms.

Ned came in presently, rustling around through the hay after eggs, and
singing at the top of his voice. The sound seemed to bring John Jay back
to his common every-day self. He sat up, grinning as if he had never
heard of such things as tears; but those he had shed must have made his
eyesight clearer. As he slid down from the hay and walked along beside
George, he noticed for the first time how slow and faltering the steps
beside his had grown. As they climbed up the hill to the church, it
seemed to him that the beloved face looked unusually thin and haggard in
the strong light of the sunset.

George did not play long this evening. He knew that the quiet little
listener on the steps bent as readily to the changing moods of his
melody as the clover does to the fitful breezes; so he changed abruptly
from the minor chords that his fingers instinctively reached for, to an
old hymn that smoothed away the pathetic pucker of the boy's forehead.
Then he pulled out the stops and began a loud burst of martial music, so
glad and triumphant, that, listening, one felt all great things possible
of achievement. John Jay stood up, swinging his cap on the end of a
stick which he carried, with all the curves and rythmic motions of a
drum major.

After George came out and locked the door, he stood for a moment looking
out fondly across the peaceful fields, still fair with the fading glow
of the summer sun. John Jay looked too, feeling at the same time the
touch of a caressing hand laid lightly on his bare head, but he could
not see the lips above him that moved in a silent benediction.

When Mammy came home that night, there was wood in the box and water in
the pail. The loose boards lying around the yard had been piled up
neatly, and the paths were freshly swept. All that evening John Jay's
eyes followed her with curious glances whichever way she turned, as if
he found her changed. The change was in John Jay.

Next day, when she came home, she found the same state of affairs. It
was early in the afternoon, and the children were out playing. She hung
up her sun-bonnet, and dropped wearily down into a chair. Then,
remembering a pile of clothes that must be mended before dark, she got
up and began to hunt for her thimble and thread.

"That tawmentin' boy mus