Mr. Mason took occasion once to question me on what I knew.  Some of my answers, in especial those relating to my knowledge of the Bible, surprised him.  Others made him sad.

“David,” said he, “you are an earnest lad, with a head to learn, and you will.  When your father comes, I shall talk with him.”  He paused—­“I knew him,” said he, “I knew him ere you were born.  A just man, and upright, but with a great sorrow.  We must never be hasty in our judgments.  But you will never be hasty, David,” he added, smiling at me.  “You are a good companion for Nicholas.”

Nicholas and I slept in the same bedroom, at a corner of the long house, and far removed from his mother.  She would not be disturbed by the noise he made in the mornings.  I remember that he had cut in the solid shutters of that room, folded into the embrasures, “Nicholas Temple, His Mark,” and a long, flat sword.  The first night in that room we slept but little, near the whole of it being occupied with tales of my adventures and of my life in the mountains.  Over and over again I must tell him of the “painters” and wildcats, of deer and bear and wolf.  Nor was he ever satisfied.  And at length I came to speak of that land where I had often lived in fancy—­the land beyond the mountains of which Daniel Boone had told.  Of its forest and glade, its countless herds of elk and buffalo, its salt-licks and Indians, until we fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

“I will go there,” he cried in the morning, as he hurried into his clothes; “I will go to that land as sure as my name is Nick Temple.  And you shall go with me, David.”

“Perchance I shall go before you,” I answered, though I had small hopes of persuading my father.

He would often make his exit by the window, climbing down into the garden by the protruding bricks at the corner of the house; or sometimes go shouting down the long halls and through the gallery to the great stairway, a smothered oath from behind the closed bedroom doors proclaiming that he had waked a guest.  And many days we spent in the wood, playing at hunting game—­a poor enough amusement for me, and one that Nick soon tired of.  They were thick, wet woods, unlike our woods of the mountains; and more than once we had excitement enough with the snakes that lay there.

I believe that in a week’s time Nick was as conversant with my life as I myself.  For he made me tell of it again and again, and of Kentucky.  And always as he listened his eyes would glow and his breast heave with excitement.

“Do you think your father will take you there, David, when he comes for you?”

I hoped so, but was doubtful.

“I’ll run away with you,” he declared.  “There is no one here who cares for me save Mr. Mason and Mammy.”

And I believe he meant it.  He saw but little of his mother, and nearly always something unpleasant was coupled with his views.  Sometimes we ran across her in the garden paths walking with a gallant,—­oftenest Mr. Riddle.  It was a beautiful garden, with hedge-bordered walks and flowers wondrously massed in color, a high brick wall surrounding it.  Frequently Mrs. Temple and Mr. Riddle would play at cards there of an afternoon, and when that musical, unbelieving laugh of hers came floating over the wall, Nick would say:—­