st sense of loneliness, and the very song of it seemed to be sung in
never ending refrain by the insects of the night. I had been alone in the
mountains before. I have crossed great strips of wilderness since, but
always there was love to go back to. Then I was leaving the only being
in the world that remained to me.

I must have walked two hours or more before I came to the mire of a
cross-road, and there I stood in a quandary of doubt as to which side led
to Charlestown.

As I lingered a light began to tremble in the heavens. A cock crew in the
distance. I sat down on a fallen log to rest. But presently, as the
light grew, I heard shouts which drew nearer and deeper and brought me to
my feet in an uncertainty of expectation. Next came the rattling of
chains, the scramble of hoofs in the mire, and here was a wagon with a
big canvas cover. Beside the straining horses was a great, burly man
with a red beard, cracking his long whip, and calling to the horses in a
strange tongue. He stopped still beside his panting animals when he saw
me, his high boots sunk in the mud.

"Gut morning, poy," he said, wiping his red face with his sleeve; "what
you do here?"

"I am going to Charlestown," I answered.

"Ach!" he cried, "dot is pad. Mein poy, he run avay. You are ein gut
poy, I know. I vill pay ein gut price to help me vit mein wagon--ja."

"Where are you going?" I demanded, with a sudden wavering.

"Up country--pack country. You know der Proad River--yes?"

No, I did not. But a longing came upon me for the old backwoods life,
with its freedom and self-reliance, and a hatred for this steaming
country of heat and violent storms, and artificiality and pomp. And I
had a desire, even at that age, to make my own way in the world.

"What will you give me?" I asked.

At that he put his finger to his nose.

"Thruppence py the day."

I shook my head. He looked at me queerly.

"How old you pe,--twelve, yes?"

Now I had no notion of telling him. So I said: "Is this the Charlestown
road?"

"Fourpence!" he cried, "dot is riches."

"I will go for sixpence," I answered.

"Mein Gott!" he cried, "sixpence. Dot is robbery." But seeing me
obdurate, he added: "I vill give it, because ein poy I must have. Vat
is your name,--Tavid? You are ein sharp poy, Tavid."

And so I went with him.

In writing a biography, the relative value of days and years should hold.
There are days which count in space for years, and years for days.