ood still untouched, but he noticed that
the child ate listlessly, more as an act of obedience than from a normal
desire. He glanced up at his wife and saw that she also noticed Hoyle's
languor. They finished the meal in a silence only broken by Hoyle's
questions and David's replies, now serious, now teasing and bantering.

"You are so full of interrogation points you have no room for your
dinner. Here--drink this milk--slowly; don't gulp it."

"I know what they be. They go this-a-way." The boy set down his glass to
illustrate with his slender little hand the form of the question mark.
Then he laughed out gayly. "You know hu' come I got filled up with them
things? I done swallered that thar catechism Cass b'en teachin' me
Sundays."

"No, I'm thinking you just are one yourself."

"'Cause I'm crooked like this-a-way?" He twisted about and looked up at
David gravely.

"No, no, son. Doctor didn't mean that," said his sister.

"Finish your milk," said David. "We'll have some fun with the
microscope." And once again the child essayed to eat and drink a little.

But the languor and pallor grew in spite of all David could do for him,
and as the weeks passed his large eyes burned more brilliantly and his
thin form grew more meagre. Cassandra got in the way of keeping him up
at the cabin with her, and when she went down to weave, he went also and
used to lie on the bundles of cotton, poring over the books which David
procured for him from time to time.

"What he gets in that way won't hurt him. It's not like having set tasks
to learn, and he's not burdened with any 'ought' or 'ought not' about
it. Let him vegetate until cooler weather. Then, if he doesn't improve,
we'll see what can be done. Something radical, I imagine."

The fall arrived in a splendor that was truly oriental in its
gorgeousness. The changing colors of the foliage surpassed in brilliancy
anything David had ever seen or imagined possible. The mantle of deepest
green which had clothed the mountain sides all summer, became
transmuted, until all the world was glorified and glowing as if the heat
of the summer sun had been stored up during the drowsy days to burst
forth thus in warmest reds and golds.

"The hills look as if they had clothed themselves in Turkish rugs,
ancient and fine," said David one evening, as he sat on his rock,
watching them burn in the afterglow of the setting sun.

"How much there is for me to learn and know," Cassandra replied i