ly, about his father that he was beginning
to resent it.

"He was daddy--just daddy; and I loved him dearly."

"But what was his name?"

"I don't know. We didn't seem to have a name like--like yours down
here. Anyway, if we did, I didn't know what it was."

"But, David,"--the man was speaking very gently now. He had motioned
the boy to a low seat by his side. The little girl was standing near,
her eyes alight with wondering interest. "He must have had a name, you
know, just the same. Didn't you ever hear any one call him anything?
Think, now."

"No." David said the single word, and turned his eyes away. It had
occurred to him, since he had come to live in the valley, that perhaps
his father did not want to have his name known. He remembered that once
the milk-and-eggs boy had asked what to call him; and his father had
laughed and answered: "I don't see but you'll have to call me 'The Old
Man of the Mountain,' as they do down in the village." That was the
only time David could recollect hearing his father say anything about
his name. At the time David had not thought much about it. But since
then, down here where they appeared to think a name was so important,
he had wondered if possibly his father had not preferred to keep his to
himself. If such were the case, he was glad now that he did not know
this name, so that he might not have to tell all these inquisitive
people who asked so many questions about it. He was glad, too, that
those men had not been able to read his father's name at the end of his
other note that first morning--if his father really did not wish his
name to be known.

"But, David, think. Where you lived, wasn't there ever anybody who
called him by name?"

David shook his head.

"I told you. We were all alone, father and I, in the little house far
up on the mountain."

"And--your mother?" Again David shook his head.

"She is an angel-mother, and angel-mothers don't live in houses, you
know."

There was a moment's pause; then gently the man asked:--

"And you always lived there?"

"Six years, father said."

"And before that?"

"I don't remember." There was a touch of injured reserve in the boy's
voice which the man was quick to perceive. He took the hint at once.

"He must have been a wonderful man--your father!" he exclaimed.

The boy turned, his eyes luminous with feeling.

"He was--he was perfect! But they--down here--don't seem to know--or
care," he choked.

"Oh, but that'