All at once the humorous wrinkles came again into the corners of Amesbury’s eyes, and the eyes began to sparkle and laugh. He arose and returned the violin to its case, humming as he did so: “‘Hey diddle diddle, The cat and the fiddle.’ “I always like a little music after supper,” he remarked, resuming his seat. “Oh, ’twere more than music!” exclaimed Dan. “’T were--’t were--I’m thinkin’--’t were like in heaven. ’T weren’t fiddlin’, sir. ’T were music of angels in th’ fiddle, sir.” “That’s the best compliment I ever received,” laughed Amesbury. “Mr. Amesbury,” asked Paul, “where did you ever learn to play like that? I heard Madagowski, the great Polish violinist that every one raved over last year. I thought it was great then, but after hearing you it seems just common.” “You chaps will make me vain if you keep this up,” and Amesbury laughed again. “But where did you learn?” insisted Paul. “And what ever made you turn trapper?” Amesbury’s face grew suddenly grave, almost agonized. “Oh, Mr. Amesbury!” Paul exclaimed, feeling instinctively that he had made a mistake in urging the question. “If I shouldn’t ask, don’t tell me! I’m sorry.” “It’s all right, Paul,” said Amesbury, quietly. “I’ll tell you the story. It may be well for you to hear it.” CHAPTER XVIII STALKED BY WOLVES Amesbury filled his pipe, lighted it from the stove with one of the shavings he had whittled, and sat silently contemplating the streak of light which flashed through the stove vent. He seemed to Paul to have suddenly grown very old. His normally open, genial countenance was drawn and haggard, and Paul noted the streaks of gray in his brown hair and beard. “It may do you good to hear the story,” Amesbury presently said. “I’ve never told it to any one, but it’s a pretty good warning to young fellows like you. I like you, and I hope you’ll not make the mistakes that I did.” He lapsed into silence again for a few moments, and then began: “As I told you, my father was a minister--the gentlest, most affectionate, sympathetic man I ever knew. If there ever was a true servant of God he was one. There was never a sweeter or more devoted woman ever lived than my mother. I believe her spirit comes now of nights to kiss my forehead as I fall asleep, just as she did in those long ago days when I was a boy at home. “She was tireless. Nothing seemed ever too great a task for her. The women of my father’s church looked upon her in a way as their counselor, and they used to come to her with their troubles, as the men came to my father; and men and women were always certain of both sympathetic and practical assistance. “I had one sister, three years my senior, and we were chums and constant companions. We were both born with a passionate love of music, and when she was twelve and I nine years of age my father, with much stinting and scraping, purchased her a piano and me a violin.