Just David | Page 4

sheer will forced himself to
stand upright. The wild look left his eyes, and the flush his cheeks. His
face looked suddenly old and haggard. Yet with fairly sure steps he
crossed the room and entered the little kitchen.
Half of the bacon was black; the other half was transparent and like
tough jelly. The potatoes were soggy, and had the unmistakable taste
that comes from a dish that has boiled dry. The coffee was lukewarm
and muddy. Even the milk was sour.
David laughed a little ruefully.
"Things aren't so nice as yours, father," he apologized. "I'm afraid I'm
nothing but a discord in that orchestra to-day! Somehow, some of the
stove was hotter than the rest, and burnt up the bacon in spots; and all
the water got out of the potatoes, too,--though THAT didn't matter, for
I just put more cold in. I forgot and left the milk in the sun, and it tastes
bad now; but I'm sure next time it'll be better--all of it."

The man smiled, but he shook his head sadly.
"But there ought not to be any 'next time,' David."
"Why not? What do you mean? Aren't you ever going to let me try
again, father?" There was real distress in the boy's voice.
The man hesitated. His lips parted with an indrawn breath, as if behind
them lay a rush of words. But they closed abruptly, the words still
unsaid. Then, very lightly, came these others:--
"Well, son, this isn't a very nice way to treat your supper, is it? Now, if
you please, I'll take some of that bacon. I think I feel my appetite
coming back."
If the truant appetite "came back," however, it could not have stayed;
for the man ate but little. He frowned, too, as he saw how little the boy
ate. He sat silent while his son cleared the food and dishes away, and he
was still silent when, with the boy, he passed out of the house and
walked to the little bench facing the west.
Unless it stormed very hard, David never went to bed without this last
look at his "Silver Lake," as he called the little sheet of water far down
in the valley.
"Daddy, it's gold to-night--all gold with the sun!" he cried rapturously,
as his eyes fell upon his treasure. "Oh, daddy!"
It was a long-drawn cry of ecstasy, and hearing it, the man winced, as
with sudden pain.
'Daddy, I'm going to play it--I've got to play it!" cried the boy,
bounding toward the cabin. In a moment he had returned, violin at his
chin.
The man watched and listened; and as he watched and listened, his face
became a battle-ground whereon pride and fear, hope and despair, joy
and sorrow, fought for the mastery.

It was no new thing for David to "play" the sunset. Always, when he
was moved, David turned to his violin. Always in its quivering strings
he found the means to say that which his tongue could not express.
Across the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become all
purples now. Above, the sky in one vast flame of crimson and gold,
was a molten sea on which floated rose-pink cloud-boats. Below, the
valley with its lake and river picked out in rose and gold against the
shadowy greens of field and forest, seemed like some enchanted
fairyland of loveliness.
And all this was in David's violin, and all this, too, was on David's
uplifted, rapturous face.
As the last rose-glow turned to gray and the last strain quivered into
silence, the man spoke. His voice was almost harsh with self-control.
"David, the time has come. We'll have to give it up--you and I."
The boy turned wonderingly, his face still softly luminous.
"Give what up?"
"This--all this."
"This! Why, father, what do you mean? This is home!"
The man nodded wearily.
"I know. It has been home; but, David, you didn't think we could
always live here, like this, did you?"
David laughed softly, and turned his eyes once more to the distant
sky-line.
Why not?" he asked dreamily. "What better place could there be? I like
it, daddy."
The man drew a troubled breath, and stirred restlessly. The teasing pain

in his side was very bad to-night, and no change of position eased it. He
was ill, very ill; and he knew it. Yet he also knew that, to David,
sickness, pain, and death meant nothing--or, at most, words that had
always been lightly, almost unconsciously passed over. For the first
time he wondered if, after all, his training--some of it--had been wise.
For six years he had had the boy under his exclusive care and guidance.
For six years the boy had eaten the food, worn the clothing, and studied