The chimney was resounding with the burden of the blast as it sang without; its tumultuous staves echoed far up the mountain slopes. Abner lifted his head to listen, hearing perhaps the faint din of the winds of memory blowing as they listed about Keedon Bluffs. The next instant his attention was recalled. In the momentary absorption the sharpened hearing of the blind had failed him. He subtly knew that there was a change in the room, but what it was he could not say. He stretched out his hand with a groping gesture. “Jerry,” he called out in a friendly voice. There was no answer. The puzzled expression deepened on his face. He heard the stirring of the child. “Rosamondy,” he said, “who’s hyar?” “Nobody,” the vibrant, sweet voice answered, “nobody but me—an’ Mis’ Cat.” “Whar’s Jerry?” he demanded. “Gone out,” she said promptly. “Sech walkin’ on tiptoes I never see.” There sounded instantly a queer thumping on the puncheon floor, a tumble, a great gush of treble laughter; then the eccentric thumping was renewed and Abner knew that Rosamondy was imitating the deft celerity of Binwell’s exit on tiptoes. He did not laugh. He leaned back in his chair with doubt and perplexity corrugating his brow. A step was upon the ladder, descending from the roof-room—not Ike’s usual light step, but he it was, slowly appearing from the shadows. Even after he had emerged into the genial firelight their gloom seemed still to rest upon his face, and his eyes were at once anxious and mournful. He withstood as well as he could the shock of welcome with which Rosamond rushed upon him, seizing him round the knees till he almost toppled over, and was constrained to wildly wave his arms in order to regain his equilibrium. She fell into ecstasies of delight because of the awkward insecurity he exhibited, and as with outstretched arms, and flying hair, and tangled feet, and rippling, gurgling cries, she mimicked him, he found himself at liberty to sink into a chair. And then while Rosamond, always long in exhausting her jokes, still toppled about the floor, he silently brooded over the fire. Once or twice he raised his eyes and looked toward his uncle who seemed too lost in reverie. Sometimes Abner lifted his head to listen to the rioting winds and again bent it to his dreams. The white firelight flickered, and now the brown shadow wavered. He was presently subtly aware of a new presence by the hearth, unseen by others as all must be by him. “Ye hev got trouble alongside o’ ye, Ike,” he remarked. “Ye’re mighty foolish. It’s a great thing ter be young, an’ strong, an’ hev all yer senses. The beastises hev got mo’ gumption than ye. Ever see a young strong critter, free an’ fat, that war mournful? Naw; an’ ye ain’t goin’ ter. Ye hev got the worl’ in a sling. An’ ye set an’ mope.” Ike made an effort to rouse himself. “I know I oughtn’t,” he said in a strained voice, “but I be mighty—mighty troubled.” “Jes’ so,” said the blind man.