into life.

He heard the door open again, and Tucker shuffled out into the
path and began scattering his crumbs upon the gravel. When
Christopher passed a moment later, on his way to the house, the
old soldier was merrily whistling an invitation to a glimpse of
blue in a tree-top by the road.

The spring dragged slowly, and with June came the transplanting
of the young tobacco. This was the busiest season of the year
with Christopher, and so engrossed was he in his work that for a
week at the end of the month he did not go down for the county
news at Tom Spade's store. Fletcher was at home, he knew, but he
had heard nothing of Will, and it was through the storekeeper at
last that he learned definitely of the boy's withdrawal from the
university. Returning from the field one afternoon at sunset, he
saw Tom sitting beside Tucker in the yard, and in response to a
gesture he crossed the grass and stopped beside the long pine
bench.

"I say, Mr. Christopher, I've brought you a bit of news," called
the storekeeper at the young man's approach.

"Well, let's have it," returned Christopher, laughing. "If you're
going to tell me that Uncle Tucker has discovered a rare weed,
though, I warn you that I can't support it."

"Oh, I'm not in this, thank heaven," protested Tucker; "but to
tell the truth, I'm downright sorry for the boy--Fletcher or no
Fletcher,"