With a mother's superior smile playing about her lips, she glanced understandingly at David, and went on with her cooking. As they came in to the table, she called David's attention to a low box set on rockers, and, taking the baby from her husband's arms, carefully placed him, still asleep, in the quaint nest. "Hoke made that hisself," she said with pride. "And Cassandry, she made that kiver." Thryng touched the cover reverently, bending over it, and left the cradle rocking as he sat down at Hoke's side and began to put fresh butter between his hot biscuit, as he had learned to do. His mother would have flung up her hands in horror had she seen him doing this, or could she have known how many such he had devoured since coming to recuperate in these mountain wilds. The home was very bare and simple, but sweet and clean, and love was in it. To sit there for a while with the childlike young couple, enjoying their home and their baby and the hospitality generously offered according to their ability, warmed David's heart, and he rode away happier than he came. With mind absorbed and idle rein, he allowed his horse to stray as he would, while his thoughts and memory played strange tricks, presenting contrasting pictures to his inward vision. Now it was his mother reading by the evening lamp, carelessly scanning a late magazine, only half interested, her white hair arranged in shining puffs high on her head, and soft lace--old lace--falling from open sleeves over her shapely arms; and Laura, red-cheeked and plump, curled, feet and all, in a great lounging chair, poring over a novel and yawning now and then, her dark hair carelessly tied, with straight, straying ends hanging about her face as he had many a time seen her after playing a game of hockey with her active, romping friends. His mother and Laura were the only ones at home now, since the big elder brother was gone. Of course they would miss him and be sad sometimes, but Laura would enjoy life as much as ever and keep the home bright with youth. Even as he thought of them, the room faded and his own cabin appeared as he had seen it the day before, through the open window, with Cassandra moving about in her quiet, gliding way, haloed with light. Again he would see a picture of another room, all white and gold, with slight French chairs and tables, and couches and cushions, and candelabra of quivering crystals, with pale green walls and gold-framed paintings, and a great, three-cornered piano, massive and dark, where a slight, fair girl sat idly playing tinkling music in keeping with herself and the room, but quite out of keeping with the splendid instrument. He saw people all about her, chatting, laughing, sipping tea, and eating thin bread and butter. He saw, as if from a distance, another man, himself, in that room, standing near the piano to turn her music, while the tinkling runs and glib, expressionless trills wove in and out, a ceaseless nothing.