Suddenly, something made him sit up straight and listen. It was a child's laugh. He got up and stepped behind the hanging shoulder of the rock and waited. He looked cautiously around the jutting-rock, and there, racing toward him through the brilliant sunshine, was a little boy, a handsome, sturdy boy, and bounding along beside him, Kennedy's bulldog. Then, instinctively, Frederick knew this was his son. He would speak, he must speak! He stepped from his hiding place and came face to face with the little fellow and his companion. The dog, uttering a great growl, crouched on his hind quarters in rage. A stranger had ventured upon ground belonging to his dear ones, and Pete was demanding, in his doglike way, the reason thereof. "Pete, Pete," called Frederick, soothingly, and Pete dropped his head and came forward, as if to a friend. The boy stood, feet wide-spread, staring fixedly at this man whom Pete knew and he had never seen before. Frederick patted the dog and smiled ingratiatingly at the boy. He was looking down into a pair of dark eyes, eyes like his own, into the grave face of a child asking why he was there. The dog nuzzled the man's hand and fawned upon him, making in his throat little noises of welcome. Frederick held out his other hand. "Won't you come, too, little boy?" "I can't!... Mummy wouldn't like it. I don't know you." "She won't mind, I'm sure," replied Frederick, his heart beating so hard he could hear it. "Pete knows me, and I know your mother. Her name is--is Tessibel.... Isn't it?" The man could scarcely get that beloved name from between his lips. "Yes, Tessibel is my mummy," said the boy. "You know my mummy, and my Uncle Forrie?" "Yes," assented Frederick, sitting down. "Come here and let me tell you all about your mother's beautiful curls." Boy hitched nearer the tall stranger. He was drawn in some unknown way toward this man whose arms were out-held to him. Then, suddenly, he walked straight into them, his eyes still very grave, still very questioning. The moment Frederick touched the little one he felt the world was his. He forgot Waldstricker, forgot Madelene, forgot everything, but his elf-like son within his cuddling grasp. He touched his lips to the little face. "Oh, I've wanted to see you so," he murmured. "Why didn't you come, then?" demanded Boy. "I was away," said Frederick. "My Uncle Forrie goes away, too. When he came home yesterday, he brought me a beautiful engine--it goes on wheels. I love my Uncle Forrie." "Could you love me, dear?" breathed Frederick. "Yes, oh, yes. I love everybody. God, too. So does Mummy. And Deacon, he's my owl, and An--" Boy's lips closed on the nearly spoken word. He suddenly remembered the daily lessons he'd had from his mother never to mention Andy's name to any one; that, if he did, a big man would come and take his darling Andy away. No, Boy couldn't stand that. He wouldn't say anything about Andy, not even to this strangely attractive man.