hat they said could David understand. To none of his
questions could he obtain an answer that satisfied.

Neither, on his part, could he seem to reply to their questions in a
way that pleased them.

They went in to breakfast then, Mr. and Mrs. Holly, and the man, Perry
Larson. They asked David to go--at least, Mrs. Holly asked him. But
David shook his head and said "No, no, thank you very much; I'd rather
not, if you please--not now." Then he dropped himself down on the steps
to think. As if he could EAT--with that great choking lump in his
throat that refused to be swallowed!

David was thoroughly dazed, frightened, and dismayed. He knew now that
never again in this world would he see his dear father, or hear him
speak. This much had been made very clear to him during the last ten
minutes. Why this should be so, or what his father would want him to
do, he could not seem to find out. Not until now had he realized at all
what this going away of his father was to mean to him. And he told
himself frantically that he could not have it so. HE COULD NOT HAVE IT
SO! But even as he said the words, he knew that it was so--irrevocably
so.

David began then to long for his mountain home. There at least
he would have his dear forest all about him, with the birds and the
squirrels and the friendly little brooks. There he would have his
Silver Lake to look at, too, and all of them would speak to him of his
father. He believed, indeed, that up there it would almost seem as if
his father were really with him. And, anyway, if his father ever should
come back, it would be there that he would be sure to seek him--up
there in the little mountain home so dear to them both. Back to the
cabin he would go now, then. Yes; indeed he would!

With a low word and a passionately intent expression, David got to his
feet, picked up his violin, and hurried, firm-footed, down the driveway
and out upon the main highway, turning in the direction from whence he
had come with his father the night before.

The Hollys had just finished breakfast when Higgins, the coroner, drove
into the yard accompanied by William Streeter, the town's most
prominent farmer,--and the most miserly one, if report was to be
credited.

"Well, could you get anything out of the boy?" demanded Higgins,
without ceremony, as Simeon Holly and Larson appeared on the kitchen
porch.

"Very little. Really nothing of importance," answered Simeon Holly.

"Where is he now?"

"W