an inquiring squirrel. The
whistle sounded again, a plaintive, seeking sound, infinitely alluring.
It seemed to draw the heart like a living thing. Slowly at first and
then with the swift, gliding motion of the woods, the wide-eyed
youngster approached the open door and stood there waiting, poised and
ready for advance or flight. Again the whistle came, and to it came
Sami, straight as a bird to its calling mate.

"Tamed!" said the professor softly. "See, he is not a bit afraid."

"How on earth did you do it?" asked Miss Farr when the shy, brown baby
had been duly welcomed. The whistler was visibly vain.

"Oh, it's quite simple. I merely talked to him in his own language."

"I see that. But where did you learn the language?"

"Well, a fellow taught me that--man I met at Ypres. He could have
whistled back the dodo, I think. He knew all kinds of calls--said all
the wild things answered to them."

"Was he a great naturalist?"

The cheerful vanity faded from Spence's face, leaving it sombre.

"He--would have been," he said briefly.

Miss Farr asked no more questions. It was a restful way she had. And
perhaps because she did not ask, the professor felt an unaccustomed
impulse. "He was a wonderful chap," he volunteered. "There are few like
him in a generation. It seemed--rather a waste."

The girl nodded. "Used or wasted--it's as it happens," she said. "There
is no plan."

"That's a heathen sentiment!" The professor recovered his cheerfulness.
"A sentiment not at all suited for the contemplation of extreme youth."

"I am not extremely young."

"You? I was referring to our brown brother. He is becoming uneasy
again. What's the matter with him?"

Whatever was the matter, it reached, at that moment, an acute stage and
Sami disappeared through the door into the kitchen. Perhaps his ears
were sharper than theirs and his eyes keener. He may have seen a large
umbrella coming across the clearing.

Miss Farr frowned. "Sami is afraid of father," she explained briefly.
The door opened as she added, "I wonder why?"

"A caprice of childhood, my daughter," said the old doctor mildly. "Who
indeed can account for the vagaries of the young?"

"They are usually quite easy to account for," replied his daughter
coldly. "You must have frightened the child some time."

"Tut, tut, my dear. How could an old fogey like myself frighten anyone?"

"I don't know. But I should like to."

Father and daughter looked at each other fo