pon the distant mountains, and a smile crept to
her lips.

"What are you thinking of?" I asked.

"Oh, only of things that happened over there"--she nodded her head
towards the distant hills as to some old crony with whom she shares
secrets--"when I was a girl."

"You lived there, long ago, didn't you, when you were young?" I asked.
Boys do not always stop to consider whether their questions might or
might not be better expressed.

"You're very rude," said my mother--it was long since a tone of her old
self had rung from her in answer to any touch; "it was a very little
while ago."

Suddenly she raised her head and listened. Perhaps some twenty seconds
she remained so with her lips parted, and then from the woods came a
faint, long-drawn "Coo-ee." We ran to the side of the tower commanding
the pathway from the village, and waited until from among the dark pines
my father emerged into the sunlight.

Seeing us, he shouted again and waved his stick, and from the light of
his eyes and his gallant bearing, and the spring of his step across the
heathery turf, we knew instinctively that trouble had come upon him.
He always rose to meet it with that look and air. It was the old Norse
blood in his veins, I suppose. So, one imagines, must those godless old
Pirates have sprung to their feet when the North wind, loosed as a hawk
from the leash, struck at the beaked prow.

We heard his quick step on the rickety stair, and the next moment he was
between us, breathing a little hard, but laughing.

He stood for awhile beside my mother without speaking, both of them
gazing at the distant hills among which, as my mother had explained,
things had happened long ago. And maybe, "over there," their memories
met and looked upon each other with kind eyes.

"Do you remember," said my father, "we climbed up here--it was the first
walk we took together after coming here. We discussed our plans for the
future, how we would retrieve our fortunes."

"And the future," answered my mother, "has a way of making plans for us
instead."

"It would seem so," replied my father, with a laugh. "I am an unlucky
beggar, Maggie. I dropped all your money as well as my own down that
wretched mine."

"It was the will--it was Fate, or whatever you call it," said my mother.
"You could not help that, Luke."

"If only that damned pump hadn't jambed," said my father.

"Do you remember that Mrs. Tharand?" asked my mother.

"Yes, what of her?"

"A worl