in his arms and carry me like I was a baby, and read. Sometimes he would sit on a bank of moss under those trees—see near the top by that open spot of sky a right dark place? There are no other trees like them. They are his trees. He would sit with me there and tell me the stories of the strange words; but we never told mother, for she said they were heathen and I mustn't give heed to him." When deeply absorbed, she often lapsed into her old speech. David liked it. He almost wished she would never change it for his. "After father died I hunted and hunted for those little books, but I never could find them."
"You remember him so well, won't you tell me how he looked?"
She slowly brought her eyes down from the mountain top and fixed them on his face. "Sometimes—just for a minute—you make me think of him—but you don't look like him. I never heard any one laugh like he could laugh—and with his eyes, too. He was tall like you, and he carried his shoulders high like you do when you hurry, but he was a dark man. When he stood here in the door of the loom shed, his head touched the top. I thought of it when you stood here a bit ago and had to stoop. He always did that." She lifted her gaze again to the mountain, and was silent.
"Tell me a little more? Just a little? Don't you remember anything he said?"
"He used to preach, but I was too little to remember what he said. They used to have preaching in the schoolhouse, and in winter he used to teach there—when he could get the children