There were wide, deep shadows beneath the grey eyes, doubly noticeable because of the heavy fringe of the lashes that swept above them; there was a pallid, bluish circle around the thin and tight-set lips. And the lean cheeks were very, very pale, both with the heat of the sun and a fatigue now close to exhaustion. But the eyes themselves, as they met Caleb's, were alight with a fire which afterward, when he had had more time to ponder it, made him remember the pictured eyes of the children of the Crusades. They fairly burned into his own, and they checked the first half-jocular words of greeting which had been trembling upon his lips. His voice was only grave and kindly when he began to speak. "You--you look a trifle tired, young man," he said then. "Are you--going far?" The boy touched his lips delicately with the point of his tongue. His gravity more than matched that of his questioner. "Air--air thet the--city?" The words were soft of accent and a little drawling; there was an accompanying gesture of one thumb thrown backward over a thin shoulder. But Caleb had to smile a little at the breathless note in the query. "The city?" he echoed, a little puzzled. "The city! Well, now--I----" and he chuckled a bit. The boy caught him up swiftly, almost sharply. "Thet's--ain't thet Morrison?" he demanded. And then Caleb had a glimmer of comprehension. He nodded. "Yes," he answered quietly. "That's the city. That's Morrison down there." The shoulders of the ancient coat lifted and fell with a visible sigh as the strange little figure turned again, head keenly forward, to gaze hungrily down at the town in the valley. And Caleb translated that long-drawn breath correctly; without stopping to reason it out, he knew that it meant fulfillment of a dream most marvelous in anticipation, but even more wonderful in its coming true. Words would have failed where that single breath sufficed. The man remained quiet until the boy finally turned back to him, eased the heavy trap to his other shoulder and wet his lips once more. "I thought it war," he murmured, and a thread of awe wove through the words. "I thought it est nachelly _hed_ to be! Haow--haow many houses would you reckon they might be daown--daown in thet there holler?" The owner of the white-columned house gave the question its meed of reflection. "Well, I--I'd say quite a few hundred, at least." The odd little figure bobbed his head. "Thet's what Old Tom always sed," he muttered, more to himself than to his hearer. "An'--an' I guess I ain't never rightly believed him till naow." And then: "Is--is New Yor-rk any bigger?" he asked. The man at the picket fence smiled again, but the smile was without offense. "Well, yes," he answered. "Yes, considerably bigger, I should judge. Twice as large, at least, and maybe more than that."