Maw didn’t know the answer—that was sure. She loved Nat best—Luke had guessed it long ago, by the tone of her voice when she spoke to him, by the touch of her hand on his head, or the size of his apple turnover, so much bigger than the others’. Maw must have built heavily on her hopes of Nat those days—her one perfect child. She was so proud of him! In the face of all ominous prediction she would fling her head high. “My Nat’s a Peel!” she would say. “Can’t never tell how he’ll turn out.” The farmers thereabouts thought they could tell her. Nat was into one scrape after another—nothing especially wicked; but a compound of the bubbling mischief in a too ardent life—robbed orchards, broken windows, practical jokes, Halloween jinks, vagrant whimsies of an active imagination. It was just that Nat’s quarters were too small for him, chiefly. Even he realized this presently. Luke would never forget the sloppy March morning when Nat went away. He was wakened by a flare of candle in the room he shared with his brothers. Tom, the twelve-year-old, lay sound asleep; but Nat, the big man of fifteen, was up, dressed, bending over something he was writing on a paper at the bureau. There was a fat little bundle beside him, done up in a blue-and-white bandanna. Day was still far off. The window showed black; there was the sound of a thaw running off the eaves; the whitewashed wall was painted with grotesque leaping shadows by the candle flame. At the first murmur, Nat had come and put his arms about him. “Don’t ye holler, little un; don’t ye do it! ’Tain’t nothin’—on’y Natty’s goin’ away a spell; quite a spell, little un. Now kiss Natty.... That’s right!... An’ you lay still there an’ don’t holler. An’ listen here, too: Natty’s goin’ to bring ye somethin’—a grand red ball, mebbe—if you’re good. You wait an’ see!” But Natty hadn’t brought the ball. Two years had passed without a scrap of news of him; and then—he was back. Slipped into the village on a freighter at dusk one evening. A forlorn scarecrow Nat was; so tattered of garment, so smeared of coal dust, you scarcely knew him. So full of strange sophistications, too, and new trails of thought—so oddly rich of experience. He gave them his story. The tale of an exigent life in a great city; a piecework life made of such flotsam labors as he could pick up, of spells of loafing, of odd incredible associates, of months tagging a circus, picking up a task here and there, of long journeyings through the country, “riding the bumpers”—even of alms asked at back doors! “Oh, not a tramp, Nat!” The hurt had quivered all through Maw. But Nat only laughed. “Jiminy Christmas, it was great!” He had thrown back his head, laughing. That was Nat all through—sipping of life generously, no matter in what form.