heard it, and a caressing note lurked in it. "Seems a long time to us since she went away last September. S'lome's comin' home," he repeated, as though the very sentence brought joy.

"It's right for me to tell you 'bout her, Stone, since you're to be one of us for quite a spell. It's a sort o' sad story, but me an' mother've tried to make her forget the beginning of her life. It may be that you don't like young girls much, seein' that you've never married, but there'll be a kind spot in your heart for S'lome when you hear 'bout her. You see, it began away back yonder when I was a young fellow at school. Bob Summerton was a classmate of mine, and my best friend. His one prevailin' weakness was a woman's pretty face. He was a poor fellow, and had no business marryin' when he did. His wife, highly connected, but without any near relations, was killed in a railway accident. Their little girl, who had been born six months before, escaped unhurt. Bob was a Kentuckian, from the soles of his feet up, and one day, when S'lome was only three years old, he was shot by a coward for defending a woman's good name. He telegraphed me to come, and I reached him in time for him to consign to my keepin' the child soon to be orphaned again. It nearly broke my heart, Stone,"—the strong man choked back something in his throat,—"but even at that tender age the young thing's grief was pitiful. I brought her here, and me and mother—well, we've done what we could to make her happy—God bless her!"

The last words were in a husky whisper, and I knew that tears which had started from the heart were glistening in the eyes of that grand old gentleman.

"She's not so big, and she's not so little," he went on, presently, for I knew of nothing to say at this juncture. "Just kind o' medium size, and as sweet as the Lord's blessed sunshine. She ain't ashamed to keep the house clean, and help mother, either. It's always May-time 'bout the old place when she's here, Stone. She's tender-hearted as a lamb, and'll nuss a chicken with the gapes for half a day. But the horse don't run on this farm that she's afraid to ride. And when me or mother are ailin', she'll sit by us night and day—says she's 'fraid to trust a nigger with medicine. And she's got our hearts so 't they'd almost stop beatin' if she told 'em to. She's ridden on a load o' hay many a time, and has gone to the wheat-field to help us with the thrashin'. And she's comin' home next Saturday, Stone."

He stopped again, and I knew that he was thinking. Presently he arose, and stretched his arms with a yawn.

"You'll like her, Stone, if you're a human. Good-night."

"Good-night," I answered, and his heavy boots thumped across the porch to the hall door.

That night, for the first time in my life, a girl's face crept into my dreams.