that comes from a dish that has boiled dry. The coffee was lukewarm and
muddy. Even the milk was sour.

David laughed a little ruefully.

"Things aren't so nice as yours, father," he apologized. "I'm afraid
I'm nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day! Somehow, some of
the stove was hotter than the rest, and burnt up the bacon in spots;
and all the water got out of the potatoes, too,--though THAT didn't
matter, for I just put more cold in. I forgot and left the milk in the
sun, and it tastes bad now; but I'm sure next time it'll be better--all
of it."

The man smiled, but he shook his head sadly.

"But there ought not to be any 'next time,' David."

"Why not? What do you mean? Aren't you ever going to let me try again,
father?" There was real distress in the boy's voice.

The man hesitated. His lips parted with an indrawn breath, as if behind
them lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the words still
unsaid. Then, very lightly, came these others:--

"Well, son, this isn't a very nice way to treat your supper, is it?
Now, if you please, I'll take some of that bacon. I think I feel my
appetite coming back."

If the truant appetite "came back," however, it could not have stayed;
for the man ate but little. He frowned, too, as he saw how little the
boy ate. He sat silent while his son cleared the food and dishes away,
and he was still silent when, with the boy, he passed out of the house
and walked to the little bench facing the west.

Unless it stormed very hard, David never went to bed without this last
look at his "Silver Lake," as he called the little sheet of water far
down in the valley.

"Daddy, it's gold to-night--all gold with the sun!" he cried
rapturously, as his eyes fell upon his treasure. "Oh, daddy!"

It was a long-drawn cry of ecstasy, and hearing it, the man winced, as
with sudden pain.

"Daddy, I'm going to play it--I've got to play it!" cried the boy,
bounding toward the cabin. In a moment he had returned, violin at his
chin.

The man watched and listened; and as he watched and listened, his face
became a battle-ground whereon pride and fear, hope and despair, joy
and sorrow, fought for the mastery.

It was no new thing for David to "play" the sunset. Always, when he was
moved, David turned to his violin. Always in its quivering strings he
found the means to say that which his tongue could not express.

Across the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become all