the
wild scenes of the Julian Alps. It was on a Christmas Eve that he had
bidden his old friends good bye and at each return of the day he thought
more sadly of his lonely life, sighing for the old mountain village
where he had so often made merry with his comrades.

There was one bright spot in Crescimir's daily routine and he prized
that above all the day, for it showed to him that there was one person
who did think of him, though who he could never learn. For a year or
more he had found each day at his cabin door a bunch of garden flowers
and in their place he daily left a bunch of his sweetest onions or some
rare vegetable, which were always taken away.

The rain began to fall, after Crescimir, having made the horse and
cattle right for the night, started to his cabin. The barn was on the
summit of the knoll, at the foot of which, by the arroyo, he had built
his little house of one room.

Crescimir felt his way along through the vegetable garden, carrying the
milk pail in one hand and holding the lantern out before him with the
other; the light glistened upon the tall stalks of last year's maize and
gleamed back from the glossy, pungent leaves of the bay tree, from the
tin pail and his wet boots, all reflected in the little pools fast
collecting in the path. As he neared the cabin the rain fell as it
seldom does, save in the tropics, and Crescimir entering the cabin
closed the door with a noise, warning the storm not to encroach on the
little bit of the world which was his own.

Inside the cabin there was a blazing wood-fire on the open hearth and a
lighted candle on the table; the interior was homelike and comfortable;
in one corner stood the bed with white cover, there were two arm chairs,
a tall dresser and two tables, one of the tables set for supper, which
consisted simply of bread and milk which Crescimir was ready for as soon
as he had washed his hands at the pump in the little "lean-to," and
exchanged his long boots for a pair of easy slippers.

Over the fireplace hung a bunch of crimson toyone berries and a branch
of hemlock, which Crescimir had hung there to mark the holiday. He did
not sit down at once to his meal, but stood, leaning against the
chimney piece, meditatively picking off bits of the hemlock and
throwing them into the fire where they crackled with a merry noise and
blazed up, scenting the room with their fragrance of the forest.

As he threw the bits into the fire he sang that melody wh