The boy shook his head; “Not me; not me;” he said; “do you like Pete?” The man was puzzled. “Are you not Pete?” he asked. The delicate face grew sad: “No, no, no,” he said in a low moaning tone; “I’m not Pete; Pete, he lives in here;” he touched himself on the breast. “I am—I am—” A look of hopeless bewilderment crept into his eyes; “I don’t know who I am; I’m jest nobody. Nobody can’t have no name, can he?” He stood with downcast head; then suddenly he raised his face and the shadows lifted, as he said, “But Pete he knows, Mister, ask Pete.” A sudden thought came to Mr. Howitt. “Who is your father, my boy?” Instantly the brightness vanished; again the words were a puzzled moan; “I ain’t got no father, Mister; I ain’t me; nobody can’t have no father, can he?” The other spoke quickly; “But Pete had a father; who was Pete’s father?” Instantly the gloom was gone and the face was bright again. “Sure, Mister, Pete’s got a father; don’t you know? Everybody knows that. Look!” He pointed upward to a break in the trees, to a large cumulus cloud that had assumed a fantastic shape. “He lives in them white hills, up there. See him, Mister? Sometimes he takes Pete with him up through the sky, and course I go along. We sail, and sail, and sail, with the big bird things up there, while the sky things sing; and sometimes we play with the cloud things, all day in them white hills. Pete says he’ll take me away up there where the star things live, some day, and we won’t never come back again; and I won’t be nobody no more; and Aunt Mollie says she reckons Pete knows. ’Course, I’d hate mighty much to go away from Uncle Matt and Aunt Mollie and Matt and Sammy, ’cause they’re mighty good to me; but I jest got to go where Pete goes, you see, ’cause I ain’t nobody, and nobody can’t be nothin’, can he?” The stranger was fascinated by the wonderful charm of the boy’s manner and words. As the lad’s sensitive face glowed or was clouded by each wayward thought, and the music of his sweet voice rose and fell, Mr. Howitt told himself that one might easily fancy the child some wandering spirit of the woods and hills. Aloud, he asked, “Has Pete a mother, too?” The youth nodded toward the big pine that grew to one side of the group, and, lowering his voice, replied, “That’s Pete’s mother.” Mr. Howitt pointed to the grave; “You mean she sleeps there?” “No, no, not there; there!” He pointed up to the big tree, itself. “She never sleeps; don’t you hear her?” He paused. The wind moaned through the branches of the pine. Drawing closer to the stranger’s side, the boy whispered, “She always talks that a way; always, and it makes Pete feel bad. She wants somebody. Hear her callin’, callin’, callin’? He’ll sure come some day, Mister; he sure will. Say, do you know where he is?” The stranger, startled, drew back; “No, no, my boy, certainly not; what do you mean; who are you?”