NEXT day Master went to Tillbury for his mail, a-walk of some twenty miles. He lingered for awhile near the shore of Buckhom on his way, but saw nothing of her he loved.

Two fishermen had arrived at Strong's, and the Emperor had taken them to spring holes in the lower river.

After supper that evening he built a big fire in front of the main camp, and sat down beside the fishermen with Socky and Sue in his lap.

Darkness had fallen when Dunmore strode into the firelight.

"Dwellers in the long house," he said, removing his cap, "I am glad to sit by your council fire."

"Had supper?" Strong inquired.

"No—give me a doughnut and a piece of bread and butter. I'll eat here by the fire."

He took the children in his arms while Strong went to prepare his luncheon.

"I love and fear you," said he. "You make me think of things forgotten."

Of late Socky had thought much of the general subject of grandfathers. He knew that they were highly useful members of society. He had seen them carry children on their backs and draw them in little wagons. This fact had caused him to put all able-bodied grandfathers in the high rank of ponies and billy-goats. His uncles Silas and Robert had been out of camp so much lately they had been of slight service to him. The thought that a grandfather would be more reliable, had presented itself, and he had broached the subject to little Sue. How they were acquired—whether they were bought or "ketched" or just given away to any who stood in need of them—neither had a definite notion. On this point the boy went to his aunt for counsel. She told him, laughingly, that they were "spoke for" in a sort of proposal like that of marriage. He had begun to think very favorably of Mr. Dunmore, and timidly put the question:

"Are—are you anybody's gran'pa?"

"No."

"Mebbe you'd be my gran'pa," the boy suggested, soberly. .

"Maybe," said Dunmore, with a smile.

"We could play horse together when Uncle Silas is away," was the further suggestion of Socky.

"Why not play horse with your sister?"

"She's too little—she can't draw me."

"Gran'pas don't make the best horses," Dunmore objected.

"Yes they do," Socky stoutly affirmed. "May Butler's gran'pa draws her 'round everywhere in a little cart."

"Well, that shows that old men can be good for something," said Dunmore. "Where's your wagon?"

Socky ran for the creaking treasure.

"Now get in—both of you," said the whitehaired man.

Socky and Sue mounted the wagon. Dunmore took the tongue-peg in both hands and began to draw them around the fire. Their cries of pleasure seemed to warm his heart. He quickened his pace, and was soon trotting in a wide circle while Zeb ran at his side and seemed to urge him on.

When, wearied by his exertion, he sat down to rest, the children stood close beside him and felt his face with their hands, and gave him the silent blessing of full confidence.

For Dunmore there was a kind of magic in it all. Somehow it faced him about and set him thinking of new things. That elemental appeal of the little folk had been as the sunlight breaking through clouds and falling on the darkened earth. In his lonely heart spring-time had returned.

The children climbed upon his knees, and he began a curious chant with closed eyes and trembling voice. The firelight fell upon his face while he chanted as follows:

"I hear the voices of little children ringing like silver

bells,

And the great bells answer them—they that hang

in the high towers—

The dusky, mouldering towers of the old time, of

hope and love and friendship.

They call me in the silence and have put a new

song in my mouth."

So he went on singing this rough, unmeasured song of the old time as if his heart were full and could not hold its peace. He sang of childhood and youth and of joys half forgotten.

Sinth stood waiting, with the food in her hands, before he finished.

He let the children go and began eating.

"This is good," said he, "and I feel like blessing every one of you. Sometimes I think God looks out of the eyes of the hungry."

After a moment he added: "Strong, do you remember that song I wrote for you? It gives the signs of the seasons. I believe we called it 'The Song of the Venison-Tree.'"

The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the fire and in a moment began to sing. It is a curious fact that many who stammer can follow the rut of familiar music without betraying their infirmity. His tongue moved at an easy pace in the song of

THE VENISON-TREE