up from the letter.

"And daddy wrote this to me from the far country?" he breathed.

Simeon Holly scowled. Larson choked over a stifled chuckle. William
Streeter stared and shrugged his shoulders; but Higgins flushed a dull
red.

"No, sonny," he stammered. "We found it on the--er--I mean,
it--er--your father left it in his pocket for you," finished the man, a
little explosively.

A swift shadow crossed the boy's face.

"Oh, I hoped I'd heard--" he began. Then suddenly he stopped, his face
once more alight. "But it's 'most the same as if he wrote it from
there, isn't it? He left it for me, and he told me what to do."

"What's that, what's that?" cried Higgins, instantly alert. "DID he
tell you what to do? Then, let's have it, so WE'LL know. You will let
us read it, won't you, boy?"

"Why, y--yes," stammered David, holding it out politely, but with
evident reluctance.

"Thank you," nodded Higgins, as he reached for the note.

David's letter was very different from the other one. It was longer,
but it did not help much, though it was easily read. In his letter, in
spite of the wavering lines, each word was formed with a care that told
of a father's thought for the young eyes that would read it. It was
written on two of the notebook's leaves, and at the end came the single
word "Daddy."

David, my boy [read Higgins aloud], in the far country I am waiting for
you. Do not grieve, for that will grieve me. I shall not return, but
some day you will come to me, your violin at your chin, and the bow
drawn across the strings to greet me. See that it tells me of the
beautiful world you have left--for it is a beautiful world, David;
never forget that. And if sometime you are tempted to think it is not a
beautiful world, just remember that you yourself can make it beautiful
if you will.

You are among new faces, surrounded by things and people that are
strange to you. Some of them you will not understand; some of them you
may not like. But do not fear, David, and do not plead to go back to
the hills. Remember this, my boy,--in your violin lie all the things
you long for. You have only to play, and the broad skies of your
mountain home will be over you, and the dear friends and comrades of
your mountain forests will be about you.

DADDY.

"Gorry! that's worse than the other," groaned Higgins, when he had
finished the note. "There's actually nothing in it!