It was a cheerless night. The clouds, which had smothered the tops of the mountains all day, began about dusk to drip and drizzle a chilly rain. The dispiriting fall storms had set in. Uncle Dave, forewarned, not by a “tech of rheumatiz,” for his sturdy limbs had never felt that persecution, but by his unerring weather instinct, was prepared for the gloomy spell. An ample supply of meat and other provisions was in his larder; the woodshed was full; so he could rest by his inviting fireplace, as now he did, in cozy content. He sat in his big rustic chair, his long gray beard adrift over his breast, a far-away look in his half-shut eyes, as he gazed into the dancing flames. Faithful Tobe lay dozing near him. On the wall above hung his old Kentucky rifle, long unused, but kept for memory’s sake. It held a store of tales of trying times when it had been his tried and indeed his only friend. But to-night the old mountaineer’s thoughts went back farther than even those long ago tales. He was dreaming of his boyhood days, when he lived with his pioneer parents in the woods of the Buckeye country--days of hazel and hickory nuts, and maple sugar, of husking parties, and “spellin’ bees,” when Hannah’s bright eyes lighted the only flame of love his heart had ever known. What had become of them all? How different his life might have been had the wanderlust not seized his heart! He poked the fire to change the pictures in the flames, and he was just settling back again when Tobe, giving a low growl, jumped up and faced the door. The old man listened. His sharp ear caught the sound of footsteps. The dog growled again more threateningly, as a gentle rap came at the door. “Be still, Tobe,” said his master. “Who’s there?” “It’s Fred.” The old man rose and threw open the door. “Come in, boy, come in. What brings ye here this drippin’ night?” “I’m in trouble, Uncle Dave”; the voice trembled slightly. “What’s wrong?” “I’ve left the ranch--discharged, I guess.” “Hev ye been doin’ mischief?” The tone was incisive. “No, I haven’t,” Fred looked squarely into the calm eyes that searched him. “Perhaps I’ve made mistakes, but I did the best I could.” “None of us kin beat that; but why d’ye come to me?” “Because I have no other friend I can trust with my trouble. I haven’t any money--they wouldn’t pay me--but I thought you might take me in till I can find a way to get back home. I’ll make it right some way.” “Wall, boy, you’re welcome.” The voice was tender. Fred’s eyes filled. “There, now, fergit yer troubles. We’ll figure them out in the morning. Get off that wet jacket and dry yerself--but take care of your pony fust.” “I haven’t any.” “You come afoot?” “Yes, my little mare was killed in the roundup.” “That’s more trouble. Wall, never mind, set down and thaw out while I git somethin’ ready to comfort yer insides. Yer hungry, I reckon.” “Not so very.”