life are lost sight of. They have no hilltops like Cassandra’s. Only the poets have.”

A quizzical smile played about the old man’s mouth. He came and laid his arm across David’s shoulders, and the act softened the slight sting of his words. “And — you call yourself a poet?”

“Not that,” said the young man, humbly, “but I have been learning. I would have scorned to be called a poet until I learned of this girl and her father. I thought I had ideals, and felt my superiority in consequence, until I came down to the beginnings of things with them.”

“Her — her father? Why — he’s dead — he — ”

“And yet through her I have learned of him. I believe he was a man who walked with God, and at Cassandra’s