If Any Man Sin. H. A. Cody

some time until she was older. A sudden idea came into his mind.

      "Look, Nance, suppose we play that I am your daddy, and that your mamma is sitting right here by our side."

      "Oh, yes," Nance was ready for the game, "and I'll call you 'daddy,' and we'll talk to mamma, and make believe that she's right here."

      How often in the past in his old parish had Martin pictured to himself a scene similar to this. It had all been so real: an open fire, a child on his knee, and Beryl by his side. He closed his eyes, while a sigh escaped his lips.

      "Daddy." He started at the name. "Are you sleepy? Why do you do that?"

      "Do what?"

      "Oh, this," and she drew in her breath, and let it out again.

      Martin laughed. "I was just thinking, Nance, that was all."

      "Well, don't shut your eyes, and don't think, or mamma will be cross, won't you, mamma?" and she turned to an imaginary person nearby.

      "What do you want me to do?"

      "Tell a story, and mamma and I will listen."

      "Tell a story, Nance! What kind of a one do you want?"

      "Oh, a fairy story, about flowers, and birds, and people—a story like mamma used to tell."

      Martin sat for a while without replying, watching the fire dancing merrily before him. It was a fairy-story the child wanted, and he could not remember any.

      "Go on, daddy," Nance demanded.

      "Yes, little one, I will. I'm only thinking."

      "Well, don't think," was the imperious command. "Talk."

      "Once upon a time," Martin began, "there was a little boy who had a beautiful home."

      "That's nice." Nance sighed, as she nestled her head back comfortably against the strong arm which was supporting her.

      "And the boy," Martin continued, "had a father and a mother who loved him very much. All day long he played in the sunshine, amongst the flowers, birds, and butterflies. He had a big dog, too, and they were always so happy together. Then the boy grew to be a man, and he had a garden all his own. He had many trees and beautiful flowers to look after, and he loved them very much, especially the little baby flowers. These came to him, and he would talk to them, and tell them what to do to make them grow strong and beautiful."

      "What! could the flowers talk?" Nance asked in amazement. "Wasn't it funny?"

      "Yes, those flowers could talk, and understood everything the gardener told them."

      "What is a gardener?"

      "Oh, the man who was once a little boy."

      "I see." Sleepily.

      "Well, after a while the gardener hurt one of his flowers."

      "He did!" Nance was wide awake now. "Wasn't he bad! How did he hurt it?"

      "He just broke it down, so it could never stand up again."

      "Oh!"

      "Yes, Nance, that's what he did, and he had to leave his garden and go away."

      "Go on," Nance demanded as Martin paused.

      "Yes, he went away, for such a long time, and tried to forget all about his garden. Then in a strange place he saw one of his most beautiful flowers and heard her sing."

      "What! can flowers sing?"

      "This one could, so beautifully. But the gardener did not dare to speak to her. She knew what he had done, and he was afraid. So he ran away again, far off into a land of wilderness. His heart was very sad and lonely. No one loved him, and everybody thought that he was so bad."

      "And wasn't he, daddy? He must have been bad or he wouldn't have hurt the beautiful flower."

      "He was very, very sorry, Nance, and his heart was heavy all the time, but no one knew that. Then one day he found another little flower. She had fallen into the water, but some kind people saw her and saved her. The gardener took this lovely flower with him wherever he went. He built a little house among the trees, where they lived all by themselves, and were so happy."

      "What was her name, daddy?"

      "The gardener called her 'Heart's Ease.'"

      "Funny—funny—name," came low and sleepily from the child.

      Martin paused, while his thoughts roamed back over the past. He sat thus for some time holding Nance, who had fallen asleep in his arms. At length he arose, laid the child gently in the little rough cot he had prepared for her with such care, and wrapped her well up in the blanket he had obtained from an Indian. He stood for a while watching her by the flickering light of the fire. He then picked up his violin and, seating himself, began to play soft and low. The wind roared and howled outside, but Martin heeded it not. A mystic door had noiselessly opened, and he had passed through into an enchanted world, where the sorrows, regrets, and cares of earth were for a time forgotten.