d, and in extenuation, too, of an act of her own!

There was no reply except a muttered "Humph!" under the breath. Then
Simeon Holly rose and stalked into the house.

The next day was Sunday, and Sunday at the farmhouse was a thing of
stern repression and solemn silence. In Simeon Holly's veins ran the
blood of the Puritans, and he was more than strict as to what he
considered right and wrong. When half-trained for the ministry,
ill-health had forced him to resort to a less confining life, though
never had it taken from him the uncompromising rigor of his views. It
was a distinct shock to him, therefore, on this Sunday morning to be
awakened by a peal of music such as the little house had never known
before. All the while that he was thrusting his indignant self into his
clothing, the runs and turns and crashing chords whirled about him
until it seemed that a whole orchestra must be imprisoned in the little
room over the kitchen, so skillful was the boy's double stopping.
Simeon Holly was white with anger when he finally hurried down the hall
and threw open David's bedroom door.

"Boy, what do you mean by this?" he demanded.

David laughed gleefully.

"And didn't you know?" he asked. "Why, I thought my music would tell
you. I was so happy, so glad! The birds in the trees woke me up
singing, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and the sun came over the hill
there and said, 'You're wanted--you're wanted;' and the little
tree-branch tapped on my window pane and said 'You're wanted--you're
wanted!' And I just had to take up my violin and tell you about it!"

"But it's Sunday--the Lord's Day," remonstrated the man sternly.

David stood motionless, his eyes questioning.

"Are you quite a heathen, then?" catechised the man sharply. "Have they
never told you anything about God, boy?"

"Oh, 'God'?--of course," smiled David, in open relief. "God wraps up
the buds in their little brown blankets, and covers the roots with--"

"I am not talking about brown blankets nor roots," interrupted the man
severely. "This is God's day, and as such should be kept holy."

"'Holy'?"

"Yes. You should not fiddle nor laugh nor sing."

"But those are good things, and beautiful things," defended David, his
eyes wide and puzzled.

"In their place, perhaps," conceded the man, stiffly, "but not on God's
day."

"You mean--He wouldn't like them?"

"Yes."

"Oh!"--and David's face cleared. "That's all right, then. Your God
isn't the same