“Why, Mr. Pickett, as I was tellin’ ye, I didn’t pay no partic’ler attention to that one. I was--” “You fool!” The old man loosed his grip on the handle of the door, strode across the kitchen, and disappeared into the shadows of his own bedroom. After that, for many minutes, there was silence between Dannie and Gabriel. The hired man was the first to speak. “Well, as ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say, ‘Betwixt the fool an’ the philosopher, the fool’s the happiest.’ I shan’t lose no sleep to-night; he will. Come, Dannie, it’s high time fer both of us to foller his example an’ turn in.” As he finished speaking, he passed through the open door, across the kitchen, and up the steep staircase to his own room. Then Aunt Martha came out to where Dannie still stood on the porch, and laid her hand lovingly on his head. “Gabriel’s right,” she said, “it’s time you were in bed.” “Yes, I know; but isn’t it terrible, Aunt Martha?” “It’s unfortunate, Dannie. But he had to know it; and the sooner, the better. You know how he is; and he’ll be partly over it by morning. But he’s very good to you, Dannie, very good.” “Yes, Aunt Martha, he is. My father couldn’t have been better to me. Where is my father, Aunt Martha?” She was not his aunt. He had no aunt, nor uncle either, for that matter. But she had taken him in her arms when his mother died, and she had nursed him in sickness, and fed him in health, and cared for him constantly; and she was just as proud of this rugged and manly boy as ever his own mother could have been. She could have answered the boy’s question. She and she only could have given him the information he desired. For, through all the years, she had kept in touch with Charlie Pickett. She had written letters to him at midnight, and mailed them secretly, telling him of his child’s health and growth and prosperity. But she did not dare to tell this boy what she knew; she dared only to tell him what she hoped. “He’s somewhere in the wide world, dearie. Sometime, I hope, he’ll come back to us.” And yet she felt, in her heart, that her “sometime” would not be until Abner Pickett’s tongue was forever still. “Why did he go away? Was Gran’pap unkind to him? Tell me that, Aunt Martha.” “Oh, no! I can’t tell you that. I can’t set myself up as a judge between those two. But it’ll all come out right in the end, Dannie; I’m sure of that; it always does. It’s for you and me to do just the very best we can, and not worry ourselves about things we can’t help. Try to do that, Dannie. You’re a brave boy, and I’m proud of you.” “Thank you, Aunt Martha!” Again the boy’s attempt to learn something about his father had been foiled, as it had been so often before. He sank down into the porch chair despairingly, and leaned his head on his hand. The full moon, riding gloriously in the eastern sky, shone upon his face and revealed the tears upon his cheeks. In spite of the good woman’s counsel he could not yet repress the longing of his heart.