es
staring at Father Abram like one in a waking dream. When he began the
song she stretched out her arms to him; her lips moved; she called to
him in dreamy tones: "Da-da, come take Dums home!"

Miss Phoebe released the low key of the organ. But her work had been
well done. The note that she struck had beaten down the doors of a
closed memory; and Father Abram held his lost Aglaia close in his
arms.

When you visit Lakelands they will tell you more of this story. They
will tell you how the lines of it were afterward traced, and the
history of the miller's daughter revealed after the gipsy wanderers
had stolen her on that September day, attracted by her childish
beauty. But you should wait until you sit comfortably on the shaded
porch of the Eagle House, and then you can have the story at your
ease. It seems best that our part of it should close while Miss
Phoebe's deep bass note was yet reverberating softly.

And yet, to my mind, the finest thing of it all happened while Father
Abram and his daughter were walking back to the Eagle House in the
long twilight, almost too glad to speak.

"Father," she said, somewhat timidly and doubtfully, "have you a great
deal of money?"

"A great deal?" said the miller. "Well, that depends. There is plenty
unless you want to buy the moon or something equally expensive."

"Would it cost very, very much," asked Aglaia, who had always counted
her dimes so carefully, "to send a telegram to Atlanta?"

"Ah," said Father Abram, with a little sigh, "I see. You want to ask
Ralph to come."

Aglaia looked up at him with a tender smile.

"I want to ask him to wait," she said. "I have just found my father,
and I want it to be just we two for a while. I want to tell him he
will have to wait."

XVII

NEW YORK BY CAMP FIRE LIGHT

Away out in the Creek Nation we learned things about New York.

We were on a hunting trip, and were camped one night on the bank of a
little stream. Bud Kingsbury was our skilled hunter and guide, and it
was from his lips that we had explanations of Manhattan and the queer
folks that inhabit it. Bud had once spent a month in the metropolis,
and a week or two at other times, and he was pleased to discourse to
us of what he had seen.

Fifty yards away from our camp was pitched the teepee of a wandering
family of Indians that had come up and settled there for the night. An
old, old Indian woman was trying to build a fire under an iron pot
hung upon thr