Until then, Davy, my friend, you'll
take care of Penelope, won't you--till I come back?"

Hearing this, Penelope dragged his face down to hers imploring him to
take her with him. He kissed her. Then he lifted her high in his arms
as though in play and held her off that she might see how gayly he was
smiling and take heart from it.

"I don't know where I am going, child," he said, "but I am coming back
for you very soon, and you will see what a man your father really is.
I haven't been fair to you, Penelope--but wait--wait till I come back.
And Davy will take care of you--won't you, Davy?"

"Yes, sir," I said boldly.

What else could a boy have said in such a case, when every passing
moment meant danger to his friend? I had no thought of the full
meaning of my promise, for I did not look beyond that day, and that day
my goal was home. Home there was safety for me and for Penelope as
well. Home all perplexing problems solved themselves. Home was a
place of great peace, and my father and mother benign genii who lived
only to make others happy. It was easy to lead Penelope home, and I
was sure that if I told my father and mother of my promise to take care
of her, they would make the way easy for me. So when the Professor had
kissed the child and lowered her to the floor, I put out my hand and
took hers in a self-reliant grasp.

The Professor picked up the fallen rifle and put it away in its corner;
he pushed the kettle to the back of the stove; he seemed to be tidying
up the house. He blew the dust from his hat and crushed it down on his
head. Then standing in the open doorway, he surveyed the room
critically as if to make sure that all was in order before he strolled
down to the village.

"Good-by, Penelope," he said in a quiet voice. "Stay with Davy till I
come back--I'll come back soon."

For a moment Penelope believed him. "Good-by, father," she called as
he turned and walked away.

He had passed the door. Hearing her voice, he gave a start, then broke
into a run. He ran as never I had seen a man run. He was not alone a
man in flight. Every limb was filled with fear and moving for its
life. Even his hat and coat were sensate things, struggling madly to
get away to a safe refuge. Seeing him flying thus across the clearing
toward the mountains, Penelope broke from me with a cry, but I caught
her and held her in my arms. She called to him wildly, yet he did not
turn, and in a moment had plung