Mr. Welles had no more notion what cutting under six inches butt diameter meant than he had of the name of the little brown bird who sang so sweetly in his elm; but Paul’s voice and that of the nameless bird gave him the same pleasure.  He tightened his hold of the tough, sinewy little fingers, and looked up through the glorious brown columns of the great pines towards where the sky-line showed, luminous, far up the slope.

“That’s the top of the Eagle Rocks, where you see the sky,” explained his small cicerone, seeing the direction of his eyes.  “The Powerses lost a lot of sheep off over them, last year.  A dog must ha’ started running them down in the pasture.  And you know what fools sheep are.  Once they get scared they can’t think of anything to do except just to keep a-running till something gets in their way.  About half of the Powers flock just ran themselves off the top of the Rocks, although the dog had stopped chasing them, way down in the valley.  There wasn’t enough of them left, even to sell to the butcher in Ashley for mutton.  Ralph Powers, he’s about as old as I am, maybe a little bit older, well, his father had given him a ewe and two twin lambs for his own, and didn’t they all three get killed that day!  Ralph felt awful bad about it.  He don’t ever seem to have any luck, Ralph don’t.”

. . .  How sweet it was, Mr. Welles thought to himself, how awfully sweet to be walking in such pine-woods, on the early morning, preceded by such a wildly happy little dog, with a little boy whose treble voice ran on and on, whose strong little hand clasped yours so tightly, and who turned up to you eyes of such clear trust!  Was he the same man who for such endless years had been a part of the flotsam cast out every morning into the muddy, brawling flood of the city street and swept along to work which had always made him uneasy and suspicious of it?

“There’s the whistle,” said Paul, holding up a finger.  “Father has the first one blown at half-past six, so’s the men can have time to get their things ready and start; and not have to hurry.”

At this a faint stirring of interest in what the child was saying broke through the golden haze of the day-dream in which Mr. Welles was walking.  “Where do they come from anyhow, the men who work in your father’s mill?” he asked.  “Where do they live?  There are so few homes at Crittenden’s.”

“Oh, they live mostly over the hill in the village, in Ashley.  There are lots of old houses there, and once in a while now they even have to build a new one, since the old ones are all filled up.  Mr. Bayweather says that before Father and Mother came here to live and really run the mill, that Ashley Street was all full of empty houses, without a light in them, that the old folks had died out of.  But now the men have bought them up and live in them.  It’s just as bright, nights!  With windows lighted up all over.  Father’s had the electric current run over there from the mill, now, and that doesn’t cost anything except . . .”