I'll be derned, too, if I ain't curious
ter see what he WILL make of it. It strikes me this ought ter fetch
somethin' first cousin to a dirge!"

On the porch steps David paused a breathless instant. From the kitchen
came the sound of Mrs. Holly's sobs and of a stern voice praying. With
a shudder and a little choking cry the boy turned then and crept softly
upstairs to his room.

He played, too, as Perry Larson had wagered. But it was not the tragedy
of the closed bank, nor the honor of the threatened farm-selling that
fell from his violin. It was, instead, the swan song of a little pile
of gold--gold which lay now in a chimney cupboard, but which was soon
to be placed at the feet of the mourning man and woman downstairs. And
in the song was the sob of a boy who sees his house of dreams burn to
ashes; who sees his wonderful life and work out in the wide world turn
to endless days of weed-pulling and dirt-digging in a narrow valley.
There was in the song, too, something of the struggle, the fierce yea
and nay of the conflict. But, at the end, there was the wild burst of
exaltation of renunciation, so that the man in the barn door below
fairly sprang to his feet with an angry:--

"Gosh! if he hain't turned the thing into a jig--durn him! Don't he
know more'n that at such a time as this?"

Later, a very little later, the shadowy figure of the boy stood before
him.

"I've been thinking," stammered David, "that maybe I--could help, about
that money, you know."

"Now, look a-here, boy," exploded Perry, in open exasperation, "as I
said in the first place, this ain't in your class. 'T ain't no pink
cloud sailin' in the sky, nor a bluebird singin' in a blackb'rry bush.
An' you might 'play it'--as you call it--till doomsday, an' 't wouldn't
do no good--though I'm free ter confess that your playin' of them 'ere
other things sounds real pert an' chirky at times; but 't won't do no
good here."

David stepped forward, bringing his small, anxious face full into the
moonlight.

"But 't was the money, Perry; I meant about, the money," he explained.
"They were good to me and wanted me when there wasn't any one else that
did; and now I'd like to do something for them. There aren't so MANY
pieces, and they aren't silver. There's only one hundred and six of
them; I counted. But maybe they 'd help some. It--it would be
a--start." His voice broke over the once beloved word, then went on
with renewed strength. "There, see! Would thes