feet.

"My daughter, Mrs. Craig," said Reynolds gently. "Daughter, this young
man is Mr. Mose Harding, who comes from my old friend Delmar. He is
going to stay with us for a time. Sit down, Mose, and make yourself at
home."

The girl blushed painfully, and Mose flushed sympathetically. He could
not understand the mystery, and ignored her confusion as far as
possible. The room was shabby and well worn. A rag carpet covered the
floor. The white plastered walls had pictures cut from newspapers and
magazines pinned upon them to break the monotony. The floor was littered
also with toys, clothing, and tools, which the baby had pulled about,
but the room wrought powerfully upon the boy's heart, giving him the
first real touch of homesickness he had felt since leaving the Burns'
farm that bright March day, now so far away it seemed that it was deep
in the past. For a few moments he could not speak, and the girl was
equally silent. She gathered up the baby's clothes and playthings, and
passed into another room, leaving the young man alone.

His heart was very tender with memories. He thought of Mary and of his
sister Maud, and his throat ached. The wings of the young eagle were
weary, and here was safety and rest, he felt that intuitively, and when
Reynolds returned with his wife, a pleasant-featured woman of large
frame, tears were in the boy's eyes.

Mrs. Reynolds wiped her fingers on her apron and shook hands with him
cordially. "I s'pose you're hungry as a wolf. Wal, I'll hurry up dinner.
Mebbe you'd like a biscuit?"

Mose professed to be able to wait, and at last convinced the hospitable
soul. "Wal, I'll hurry things up a little," she said as she went out.
Reynolds, as he took a seat, said: "Delmar writes that you just got
mixed up in some kind o' fuss down there. I reckon you had better tell
me how it was."

Mose was glad to unburden his heart. As the story proceeded, Reynolds
sat silently looking at the stove hearth, glancing at the youth only now
and again as he reached some dramatic point. The girl came back into the
room, and as she listened, her timidity grew less painful. The boy's
troubles made a bond of sympathy between them, and at last Mose found
himself telling his story to her. Her beautiful brown eyes grew very
deep and tender as he described his flight, his hunger, and his
weariness.

When he ended, she drew a sigh of sympathetic relief, and Reynolds said:
"Mm! you have no certain knowledge, I reckon