trifle tired, young man," he said then. "Are
you--going far?"

The boy touched his lips delicately with the point of his tongue. His
gravity more than matched that of his questioner.

"Air--air thet the--city?"

The words were soft of accent and a little drawling; there was an
accompanying gesture of one thumb thrown backward over a thin shoulder.
But Caleb had to smile a little at the breathless note in the query.

"The city?" he echoed, a little puzzled. "The city! Well, now--I----"
and he chuckled a bit.

The boy caught him up swiftly, almost sharply.

"Thet's--ain't thet Morrison?" he demanded.

And then Caleb had a glimmer of comprehension. He nodded.

"Yes," he answered quietly. "That's the city. That's Morrison down
there."

The shoulders of the ancient coat lifted and fell with a visible sigh
as the strange little figure turned again, head keenly forward, to gaze
hungrily down at the town in the valley. And Caleb translated that
long-drawn breath correctly; without stopping to reason it out, he knew
that it meant fulfillment of a dream most marvelous in anticipation,
but even more wonderful in its coming true. Words would have failed
where that single breath sufficed. The man remained quiet until the
boy finally turned back to him, eased the heavy trap to his other
shoulder and wet his lips once more.

"I thought it war," he murmured, and a thread of awe wove through the
words. "I thought it est nachelly _hed_ to be! Haow--haow many houses
would you reckon they might be daown--daown in thet there holler?"

The owner of the white-columned house gave the question its meed of
reflection.

"Well, I--I'd say quite a few hundred, at least."

The odd little figure bobbed his head.

"Thet's what Old Tom always sed," he muttered, more to himself than to
his hearer. "An'--an' I guess I ain't never rightly believed him till
naow." And then: "Is--is New Yor-rk any bigger?" he asked.

The man at the picket fence smiled again, but the smile was without
offense.

"Well, yes," he answered. "Yes, considerably bigger, I should judge.
Twice as large, at least, and maybe more than that."

The boy did not answer. He just faced about to stare once more. And
then the miracle came to pass. Around a far bend in Dexter Allison's
single spur track there came careening an ashmatic switch engine with a
half-dozen empty flats in tow. With a brave puffing and blowing of
leaky cylinder heads, it rattle