Tim looked surprised. "Miss Scott, she says God made everything, but she never knew ole Mother Cummins, or she'd never 'a' said that. She don't know much, though," he added, with a sigh for the narrow experience of his Sunday-school teacher. "You don't s'pose God would 'a' let anybody like ole Mother Cummins live if He bothered much about things, do you?" The man flashed a look of sympathy into the child's old, pinched face. This boy's problem was his. How could the Almighty care, and yet permit such things to be? John McIntyre had answered that question for himself by saying that the Almighty--if there were an Almighty--did not care; but when he looked into the child's hungry, questioning eyes his unbelief seemed inadequate. "D'ye think He would?" persisted the boy. John McIntyre hesitated. For the first time he recoiled from expressing his contempt for God and humanity. "Most people are bad, but----" He paused. Then, to his own surprise, he added: "There's your new father and mother, you know." "Yes, God must 'a' made them, all right," agreed Tim emphatically. "Mebby he couldn't help folks like ole Mis' Cummins an' Spectacle John. Ole Hughie Cameron said Spectacle John was a son of Belial, an' I bet that's right, 'cause he won't let us go near daddy's mill. Say"--he looked up, and put the question in an awed whisper--"are you a son o' Belial, too? Silas Long said you was." There was no reply to this, and the boy sat regarding John McIntyre thoughtfully. He was beginning to fear he was not so gloriously wicked as the village believed. "Say, you ain't a--a infiddle, after all, are you?" he added, in a disappointed tone. And John McIntyre did not deny the charge. Little by little, the man was inveigled into conversation. At first, his few remarks were merely about the engine or the lumber, as the boy followed him on his rounds through the mill. But the field gradually widened, until one night he was led to speak of his past--those days of love and peace, now separated from him by years of bitter sorrow. It was a little bird that opened the door into those golden days. The two incongruous figures were sitting, as usual, in the wide, dark doorway. In front lay the shining water, in its feathery willow frame, and still rosy with the last faint radiance of the sunset. As the pond slowly paled to a mirror-like crystal, the moon, round and golden, rose up from the darkness of the Drowned Lands. It sent a silver shaft down into the shadowy ravine, and a gleam from the brook answered. Just as its light came stealing on through the willowy fringe to touch the waters of the pond there arose, from the dark grove opposite the mill, a rapturous song. "What's that?" cried Tim, in startled joy. "A catbird," answered John McIntyre. "Oh, say! That's the little beggar that was meyowing jist now, ain't it?" "Yes."