en now, and not yet for him
did death spell terror. Because of this David's father was relieved;
and yet--still because of this--he was afraid.

"David," he said gently. "Listen to me."

The boy turned with a long sigh.

"Yes, father."

"We must go away. Out in the great world there are men and women and
children waiting for you. You've a beautiful work to do; and one can't
do one's work on a mountain-top."

"Why not? I like it here, and I've always been here."

"Not always, David; six years. You were four when I brought you here.
You don't remember, perhaps."

David shook his head. His eyes were again dreamily fixed on the sky.

"I think I'd like it--to go--if I could sail away on that little
cloud-boat up there," he murmured.

The man sighed and shook his head.

"We can't go on cloud-boats. We must walk, David, for a way--and we
must go soon--soon," he added feverishly. "I must get you back--back
among friends, before--"

He rose unsteadily, and tried to walk erect. His limbs shook, and the
blood throbbed at his temples. He was appalled at his weakness. With a
fierceness born of his terror he turned sharply to the boy at his side.

"David, we've got to go! We've got to go--TO-MORROW!"

"Father!"

"Yes, yes, come!" He stumbled blindly, yet in some way he reached the
cabin door.

Behind him David still sat, inert, staring. The next minute the boy had
sprung to his feet and was hurrying after his father.

CHAPTER II

THE TRAIL

A curious strength seemed to have come to the man. With almost steady
hands he took down the photographs and the Sistine Madonna, packing
them neatly away in a box to be left. From beneath his bunk he dragged
a large, dusty traveling-bag, and in this he stowed a little food, a
few garments, and a great deal of the music scattered about the room.

David, in the doorway, stared in dazed wonder. Gradually into his eyes
crept a look never seen there before.

"Father, where are we going?" he asked at last in a shaking voice, as
he came slowly into the room.

"Back, son; we're going back."

"To the village, where we get our eggs and bacon?"

"No, no, lad, not there. The other way. We go down into the valley this
time."

"The valley--MY valley, with the Silver Lake?"

"Yes, my son; and beyond--far beyond." The man spoke dreamily. He was
looking at a photograph in his hand. It had slipped in among the loose
sheets of music, and had not been put away with the others. I