Nehemiah, whom I had known as John Trumbull, sat a long time between his father and mother, holding a hand of each, and talking in a low tone, while Hope and I were in the kitchen with Uncle Eb. Now that father and son were side by side we saw how like they were and wondered we bad never guessed the truth.

   'Do you remember?' said Nehemiah, when we returned. 'Do you remember when you were a little boy, coming one night to the old log house on Bowman's Hill with Uncle Eb?

   'I remember it very well,' I answered.

   'That was the first time I ever saw you,' he said.

   'Why, you are not the night man?'

   'I was the night man,' he answered.

   I stared at him with something of the old, familiar thrill that had always come at the mention of him years agone.

   'He's grown a leetle since then,' said Uncle Eb.

   'I thought so the night I carried him off the field at Bull Run,' said Nehemiah.

   'Was that you?' I asked eagerly.

   'It was,' he answered. 'I came over from Washington that afternoon. Your colonel told me you had been wounded.

   'Wondered who you were, but I could not get you to answer. I have to thank you for my life.

   Hope put her arms about his neck and kissed him.

   'Tell us,' said she, 'how you came to be the night man.'

   He folded his arms and looked down and began his story.

   'Years ago I had a great misfortune. I was a mere boy at the time. By accident I killed another boy in play. It was an old gun we were playing with and nobody knew it was loaded. I had often quarrelled with the other boy-that is why they thought I had done it on purpose. There was a dance that night. I had got up in the evening, crawled out of the window and stolen away. We were in Rickard's stable. I remember how the people ran out with lanterns. They would have hung me-some of them-or given me the blue beech, if a boy friend had not hurried me away. It was a terrible hour.

   '"No," I said, "my name is not Brower. You are mistaken."

   'Then I walked away and Nemy Brower stayed in his grave.

   'Well, two years later we were cruising from Sidney to Van Dieman's Land. One night there came a big storm. A shipmate was washed away in the dark. We never saw him again. They found a letter in his box that said his real name was Nehemiah Brower, son of David Brower, of Faraway, NY, USA. I put it there, of course, and the captain wrote a letter to my father about the death of his son.

   He paused a moment. His mother put her hand upon his shoulder with a word of gentle sympathy. Then he went on.

   'Well, six years after I had gone away, one evening in midsummer, we came into the harbour of Quebec. I had been long in the southern seas. When I went ashore, on a day's leave, and wandered off in the fields and got the smell of the north, I went out of my head-went crazy for a look at the hills o' Faraway and my own people. Nothing could stop me then. I drew my pay, packed my things in a bag and off I went. Left the 'Burg afoot the day after; got to Faraway in the evening. It was beautiful-the scent o' the new hay that stood in cocks and rows on the hill-the noise o' the crickets-the smell o' the grain-the old house, just as I remembered them; just as I had dreamed of them a thousand times. And-when I went by the gate Bony-my old dog-came out and barked at-me and I spoke to him and he knew me and came and licked my hands, rubbing upon my leg. I sat down with him there by the stone wall and-the kiss of that

   'Then I stole up to the house and looked in at a window. There sat father, at a table, reading his paper; and a little girl was on her knees by mother saying her prayers. He stopped a moment, covering his eyes with his handkerchief.

   'That was Hope,' I whispered.

   'That was Hope,' he went on. 'All the king's oxen could not have dragged me out of Faraway then. Late at night I went off into the woods. The old dog followed to stay with me until he died. If it had not been for him I should have been hopeless. I had with me enough to eat for a time. We found a cave in a big ledge over back of Bull Pond. Its mouth was covered with briars. It had a big room and a stream of cold water trickling through a crevice. I made it my home and a fine place it was-cool in summer and warm in winter. I caught a cub panther that fall and a baby coon. They grew up with me there and were the only friends I had after Bony, except Uncle Eb.

   'Uncle Eb!' I exclaimed.

   'You know how I met him,' he continued.

   'And everybody knew he was innocent the day after he left,' said David.

   'Three cheers for Uncle Eb!' I demanded.

   And we gave them.

   'I declare!' said he. 'In all my born days never see sech fun. It's tree-menjious! I tell ye. Them 'et takes care uv others'll be took care uv-'less they do it o'purpose.'

   And when the rest of us had gone to bed Uncle Eb sat awhile by the fire with David. Late at night he came upstairs with his candle. He came over to my bed on tiptoe to see if I were awake, holding the candle above my head. I was worn out and did not open my eyes. He sat down snickering.

   'Tell ye one thing, Dave Brower,' he whispered to himself as he drew off his boots, 'when some folks calls ye a fool 's a purty good sign ye ain't.'