ching
trip--a son to be proud of, and to be leaned upon in one's old age.
Mrs. John, according to Perry Larson, was "the slickest little woman
goin'." According to John's mother, she was an almost unbelievable
incarnation of a long-dreamed-of, long-despaired-of daughter--sweet,
lovable, and charmingly beautiful. Little John--little John was
himself; and he could not have been more had he been an angel-cherub
straight from heaven--which, in fact, he was, in his doting
grandparents' eyes.

John Holly had been at his old home less than four hours when he
chanced upon David's violin. He was with his father and mother at the
time. There was no one else in the room. With a sidelong glance at his
parents, he picked up the instrument--John Holly had not forgotten his
own youth. His violin-playing in the old days had not been welcome, he
remembered.

"A fiddle! Who plays?" he asked.

"David."

"Oh, the boy. You say you--took him in? By the way, what an odd little
shaver he is! Never did I see a BOY like HIM." Simeon Holly's head came
up almost aggressively.

"David is a good boy--a very good boy, indeed, John. We think a great
deal of him."

John Holly laughed lightly, yet his brow carried a puzzled frown. Two
things John Holly had not been able thus far to understand: an
indefinable change in his father, and the position of the boy David, in
the household--John Holly was still remembering his own repressed youth.

"Hm-m," he murmured, softly picking the strings, then drawing across
them a tentative bow. "I've a fiddle at home that I play sometimes. Do
you mind if I--tune her up?"

A flicker of something that was very near to humor flashed from his
father's eyes.

"Oh, no. We are used to that--now." And again John Holly remembered his
youth.

"Jove! but he's got the dandy instrument here," cried the player,
dropping his bow after the first half-dozen superbly vibrant tones, and
carrying the violin to the window. A moment later he gave an amazed
ejaculation and turned on his father a dumfounded face.

"Great Scott, father! Where did that boy get this instrument? I KNOW
something of violins, if I can't play them much; and this--! Where DID
he get it?"

"Of his father, I suppose. He had it when he came here, anyway."

"'Had it when he came'! But, father, you said he was a tramp, and--oh,
come, tell me, what is the secret behind this? Here I come home and
find calmly reposing on my father's sitting-room table a vi