“Do you know a good one?” The boy and his mother both leaned forward. They had turned the question over and over; they had not once thought of Caleb who knew the region by heart. He chewed slowly. “There ’s a place up Chester County way,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on it as he chewed. “I used to work there when I was a boy.” “That’s too far away,” said John. “You want to be nearby, do ye?” “But not too near the railroad.” Caleb’s slow mind started on its new quest. “There ’s a place up from Bridgewater a ways--It ’s off the road. You might hear a toot clear nights, maybe--but much as ever--” “Who owns it?” Caleb shook his head. “Nice folks _used_ to live there--the Griswolds--but I heerd somewhere ’t they’d sold--” A quick look shot into the boy’s face. “You don’t mean the old Bardwell farm!” “That ’s the place,” said Caleb--“I was thinking about that little house on the creek, about half a mile, cross lots, from the farmhouse. Anybody ’d be quiet enough there.” “The Tomlinsons are there,” said John thoughtfully. “There by the creek!” asked Caleb. “No, in the farmhouse. I don’t suppose there’s anybody in the little house.” “It could be fitted up,” said his mother quickly. “That ’s better than boarding; and you must not do the work--with all that will come on you besides. Mrs. Tomlinson would cook for you.” “Ellen Tomlinson is a powerful good cook,” said Caleb solemnly. “I ’ve et her victuals many a time.” “I ’ll go down tomorrow,” said John. “We can have the little house, I know--It belongs to the road--and I ’ll put in a few camping things. If Ellen won’t cook for us, we ’ll make shift somehow.” “You must not do it,” said his mother. “It’s good air,” said Caleb, “--High up.” “And very still there--the top of the world,” said his mother with a little flitting sigh. “It’s just the place,” said John. Then he hesitated a minute. Hugh Tomlinson’s face had suddenly flashed before him--the red-rimmed eyes and the high, quavering voice.... Would Simeon object to his presence? He had always refused to speak of Tomlinson and he was gruffly silent when his name was mentioned.... But he had put him on the farm--rent-free--and he had sent the cheque--a thousand dollars.... John weighed the chances... and even while he hesitated, an instinct deeper than reason told him that the old Scotchman’s presence must be concealed from Simeon.... He might not mind. But there must be no risk. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I ’ll go down to see the Tomlinsons and get the house ready.” The old Scotchman surveyed him with keen eyes. “He wants to come here?--Sim Tetlow wants to come _here_--to this farm!” “Not here,” said John. “He ’ll be at the little house--down by the creek, you know.” The switchman was silent for a little. “A man can do what he likes wi’ his own,” he said at last gruffly. “He owns the farm--I ’ll go--”