But then, there was Dannie. What Charlie had lost of his father’s strange affection, Dannie had won. And the fondness which the old man had felt and shown for Dannie’s mother had been transferred to her boy. But he was worthy of it. He was bright and affectionate, a typical farmer’s boy, the chum and crony of his grandfather. Many a day they spent together in the woods and fields, many a toothsome lunch they ate in common. Many a trip they took to hunt small game, or whip the brooks for speckled trout. Indeed, if you saw Abner Pickett anywhere within the borders of his four hundred acre tract, you might be pretty well assured that Dannie was not far away. When the boy was old enough to go to school, it came hard for both of them to be separated all day long; and no one but gran’pap knew what a welcome sight it was to see the sturdy little figure come tramping home along the dusty road from the red schoolhouse two miles away. So it was with a distinct feeling of loneliness in the heart of each that the old man drove away to town that bright September morning, and Dannie, sitting on the gate-post, saw him go. For a long time the boy sat there after the last faint echo from the wheels of the rattling buckboard died away, looking off toward the graveyard with its fluted column, and on to the dim recesses of the gap. He was wondering. He was wishing. It was all about his father, whom he never remembered to have seen, to whom he had never spoken in his life, and yet who, so far as he could learn, was living somewhere in estrangement from his home. Why was it? When was it? Whose fault was it? He had asked himself these questions a thousand times. He had tried to learn from others. It was in vain. He had mentioned his father’s name once to gran’pap. He never dared to do so the second time. He was fond of his grandfather, very fond of him indeed. The loveliness of his dead mother was a tradition, not only at the Pickett hearthstone, but in all the countryside. And yet, what this boy wanted, what he longed for with his whole boy’s heart, with all the ardor of his soul, was, not so much a loving grandfather, not so much a dear mother’s tenderness, as it was the living, breathing presence and daily companionship of a strong and stalwart father. Ah, well! He dropped from his seat on the gate-post, and strolled up the path to the farmhouse, whistling softly. Max, the dog, came bounding out to greet him, and, together, they went out to the sheep pasture to see that the sheep were not straying beyond bounds and tearing their wool with the brambles. After that, Aunt Martha, the housekeeper, gave him his dinner in a pail, kissed him good-by as she always did, and he started off to school. He had to drive Max back. The dog was devoted to him and always wanted to go with him.