The Piper’s voice was very tender; the little dog lay still at his feet.  She leaned against the crumbling wall, and turned her veiled face away.

“’T is not for us to be happy without trying,” continued the Piper, “any more than it is for a tree to bear fruit without effort.  All the beauty and joy in the world are the result of work—­work for each other and in ourselves.  When you see a butterfly over a field of clover, ’t is because he has worked to get out of his chrysalis.  He was not content to abide within his veil.”

“Suppose,” said Miss Evelina, in a voice that was scarcely audible, “that he couldn’t get out?”

“Ah, but he could,” answered the Piper.  “We can get out of anything, if we try.  I’m not meaning by escape, but by growth.  You put an acorn into a crevice in a rock.  It has no wings, it cannot fly out, nobody will lift it out.  But it grows, and the oak splits the rock; even takes from the rock nourishment for its root.”

“People are not like acorns and butterflies,” she stammered.  “We are not subject to the same laws.”

“Why not?” asked the Piper.  “God made us all, and I’m thinking we’re all brothers, having, in a way, the same Father.  ’T is not for me to hold myself above Laddie here, though he’s a dog and I’m a man.  ’T is not for me to say that men are better than dogs; that they’re more honest, more true, more kind.  The seed that I have in my hand, here, I’m thinking ’t is my brother, too.  If I plant it, water it, and keep the weeds away from it, ’t will give me back a blossom.  ’T is service binds us all into the brotherhood.”

“Did you never,” asked Evelina, thickly, “hear of chains?”

“Aye,” said the Piper, “chains of our own making.  ’T is like the ancient people in one of my ragged books.  When one man killed another, they chained the dead man to the living one, so that he was forever dragging his own sin.  When he struck the blow, he made his own chain.”

“I am chained,” cried Evelina, piteously, “but not to my own sin.”

“’T is wrong,” said the Piper; “I’m thinking there’s a loose link somewhere that can be slipped off.”

“I cannot find it,” she sobbed; “I’ve hunted for it in the dark for twenty-five years.”

“Poor soul,” said the Piper, softly. “’T is because of the darkness, I’m thinking.  From the distaff of Eternity, you take the thread of your life, but you’re sitting in the night, and God meant you to be a spinner in the sun.  When the day breaks for you, you’ll be finding the loose link to set yourself free.”

“When the day breaks,” repeated Evelina, in a whisper.  “There is no day.”

“There is day.  I’ve come to lead you to it.  We’ll find the light together and set the thread to going right again.”

“Who are you?” cried Evelina, suddenly terror stricken.

The Piper laughed, a low, deep friendly laugh.  Then he doffed his grey hat and bowed, sweeping the earth with the red feather, in cavalier fashion.  “Tom Barnaby, at your service, but most folks call me Piper Tom.  ’T is the flute, you know,” he continued in explanation, “that I’m forever playing on in the woods, having no knowledge of the instrument, but sort of liking the sound.”