"No; Miss M'ri keeps house and brings up Jud and Janey." "I remember Jud--mean little shaver. Janey must be the baby." "She's eight now." "I remember you, David. You were a little toddler of four--all eyes. Your folks had a place right on the edge of town." "We left it when I was six years old and came out here," informed David. Forbes' groping memory recalled the gossip that had reached him in the Far West. "Dunne went to prison," he mused, "and the farm was mortgaged to defray the expenses of the trial." He hastened back to a safer channel. "Miss M'ri was foolish to spoil her life and the man's for fancied duty," he observed. David bridled. "Barnabas couldn't go to school when he was a boy because he had to work so she and the other children could go. She'd ought to have stood by him." "I see you have a sense of duty, too. This county was always strong on duty. I suppose they've got it in for me because I ran away?" "Mr. Brumble says it was a wise thing for you to do. Uncle Larimy says you were a brick of a boy. Miss Rhody says she had no worry about her woodpile getting low when you were here." "Poor Miss Rhody! Does she still live alone? And Uncle Larimy--is he uncle to the whole community? What fishing days I had with him! I must look him up and tell him all my adventures. I have planned a round of calls for to-night--Miss M'ri, Miss Rhody, Uncle Larimy--" "Tell me about your adventures," demanded David breathlessly. He listened to a wondrous tale of western life, and never did narrator get into so close relation with his auditor as did this young ranchman with David Dunne. "I must go home," said the boy reluctantly when Joe had concluded. "Come down to-morrow, David, and we'll go fishing." "All right. Thank you, sir." With heart as light as air, David sped through the woods. He had found his Hero. CHAPTER II David struck out from the shelter of the woodland and made his way to his home, a pathetically small, rudely constructed house. The patch of land supposed to be a garden, and in proportion to the dimensions of the building, showed a few feeble efforts at vegetation. It was not positively known that the Widow Dunne had a clear title to her homestead, but one would as soon think of foreclosing a mortgage on a playhouse, or taking a nest from a bird, as to press any claim on this fallow fragment in the midst of prosperous farmlands. Some discouraged looking fowls picked at the scant grass, a lean cow switched a lackadaisical tail, and in a pen a pig grunted his discontent. David went into the little kitchen, where a woman was bending wearily over a washtub. "Mother," cried the boy in dismay, "you said you'd let the washing go till to-morrow. That's why I didn't come right back." She paused in the rubbing of a soaped garment and wrung the suds from her tired and swollen hands. "I felt better, David, and I thought I'd get them ready for you to hang out." David took the garment from her.