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DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN
 ON his return from the House that Jack Built, David decided to
count his gold-pieces. He got them out at once from behind the
books, and stacked them up in little shining rows. As he had
surmised, there were a hundred of them. There were, indeed, a
hundred and six. He was pleased at that. One hundred and six were
surely enough to give him a "start."
A start! David closed his eyes and pictured it. To go on with his
violin, to hear good music, to be with people who understood what
he said when he played! That was what Mr. Jack had said a "start"
was. And this gold—these round shining bits of gold—could bring
him this! David swept the little piles into a jingling heap, and
sprang to his feet with both fists full of his suddenly beloved
wealth. With boyish glee he capered about the room, jingling the
coins in his hands. Then, very soberly, he sat down again, and
began to gather the gold to put away.
 He would be wise—he would be sensible. He would watch his
chance, and when it came he would go away. First, however, he
would tell Mr. Jack and Joe, and the Lady of the Roses; yes, and
the Hollys, too. Just now there seemed to be work, real work that
he could do to help Mr. Holly. But later, possibly when September
came and school,—they had said he must go to school,—he would
tell them then, and go away instead. He would see. By that time
they would believe him, perhaps, when he showed the gold-pieces.
They would not think he had—stolen them. It was August now; he
would wait. But meanwhile he could think—he could always be
thinking of the wonderful thing that this gold was one day to
bring to him.
Even work, to David, did not seem work now. In the morning he was
to rake hay behind the men with the cart. Yesterday he had not
liked it very well; but now—nothing mattered now. And with a
satisfied sigh David put his precious gold away again behind the
books in the cupboard.
David found a new song in his violin the next morning. To be
sure, he could not play it—
 much of it—until four o'clock in the
afternoon came; for Mr. Holly did not like violins to be played
in the morning, even on days that were not especially the Lord's.
There was too much work to do. So David could only snatch a
strain or two very, very softly, while he was dressing; but that
was enough to show him what a beautiful song it was going to be.
He knew what it was, at once, too. It was the gold-pieces, and
what they would bring. All through the day it tripped through his
consciousness, and danced tantalizingly just out of reach. Yet he
was wonderfully happy, and the day seemed short in spite of the
heat and the weariness.
At four o'clock he hurried home and put his violin quickly in
tune. It came then—that dancing sprite of tantalization—and
joyously abandoned itself to the strings of the violin, so that
David knew, of a surety, what a beautiful song it was.
It was this song that sent him the next afternoon to see his Lady
of the Roses. He found her this time out of doors in her garden.
Unceremoniously, as usual, he rushed headlong into her presence.
"Oh, Lady—Lady of the Roses," he panted.
 "I've found out, and I
came quickly to tell you."
"Why, David, what—what do you mean?" Miss Holbrook looked
"About the hours, you know,—the unclouded ones," explained David
eagerly. "You know you said they were all cloudy to you."
Miss Holbrook's face grew very white.
"You mean—you've found out why my hours are—are all cloudy
ones?" she stammered.
"No, oh, no. I can't imagine why they are," returned David, with
an emphatic shake of his head. "It's just that I've found a way
to make all my hours sunny ones, and you can do it, too. So I
came to tell you. You know you said yours were all cloudy."
"Oh," ejaculated Miss Holbrook, falling back into her old
listless attitude. Then, with some asperity: "Dear me, David! Did
n't I tell you not to be remembering that all the time?"
"Yes, I know, but I've learned something," urged the boy;
"something that you ought to know. You see, I did think, once,
that because you had all these beautiful things around you,
 the hours ought to be all sunny ones. But now I know it is n't
what's around you; it's what is in you!"
"Oh, David, David, you curious boy!"
"No, but really! Let me tell you," pleaded David. "You know I
have n't liked them,—all those hours till four o'clock
came,—and I was so glad, after I saw the sundial, to find out
that they did n't count, anyhow. But to-day they have
counted—they've all counted, Lady of the Roses; and it's just
because there was something inside of me that shone and shone,
and made them all sunny—those hours."
"Dear me! And what was this wonderful thing?"
David smiled, but he shook his head.
"I can't tell you that yet—in words; but I'll play it. You see,
I can't always play them twice alike,—those little songs that I
find,—but this one I can. It sang so long in my head, before my
violin had a chance to tell me what it really was, that I sort of
learned it. Now, listen!" And he
began to play.
It was, indeed, a beautiful song, and Miss Holbrook said so with
promptness and enthusiasm; yet still David frowned.
 "Yes, yes," he answered, "but don't you see? That was telling you
about something inside of me that made all my hours sunshiny
ones. Now, what you want is something inside of you to make yours
sunshiny, too. Don't you see?"
An odd look came into Miss Holbrook's eyes.
"That's all very well for you to say, David, but you have n't
told me yet, you know, just what it is that's made all this
brightness for you."
The boy changed his position, and puckered his forehead into a
"I don't seem to explain so you can understand," he sighed. "It
is n't the special thing. It's only that it's something. And it's
thinking about it that does it. Now, mine would n't make yours
shine, but—still,"—he broke off, a happy relief in his
eyes,—"yours could be like mine, in one way. Mine is something
that is going to happen to me—something just beautiful; and you
could have that, you know,—something that was going to happen to
you, to think about."
Miss Holbrook smiled, but only with her lips, Her eyes had grown
 "But there is n't anything 'just beautiful' going to happen to
me, David," she demurred.
"There could, could n't there?"
Miss Holbrook bit her lip; then she gave an odd little laugh
that seemed, in some way, to go with the swift red that had come
to her cheeks.
"I used to think there could—once," she admitted; "but I've
given that up long ago. It—it did n't happen."
"But could n't you just think it was going to?" persisted the
boy. "You see I found out yesterday that it's the thinking that
does it. All day long I was thinking—only thinking. I wasn't
doing it, at all. I was really raking behind the cart; but the
hours all were sunny."
Miss Holbrook laughed now outright.
"What a persistent little mental-science preacher you are!" she
exclaimed. "And there's truth—more truth than you know—in it
all, too. But I can't do it, David,—not that—not that. 'T would
take more than thinking—to bring that," she added, under her
breath, as if to herself.
"But thinking does bring things," maintained
 David earnestly.
"There's Joe—Joe Glaspell. His mother works out all day; and
"Blind? Oh-h!" shuddered Miss Holbrook.
"Yes; and he has to stay all alone, except for Betty, and she is
n't there much. He thinks all his things. He has to. He can't see
anything with his outside eyes. But he sees everything with his
inside eyes—everything that I play. Why, Lady of the Roses, he's
even seen this—all this here. I told him about it, you know,
right away after I'd found you that first day: the big trees and
the long shadows across the grass, and the roses, and the shining
water, and the lovely marble people peeping through the green
leaves; and the sundial, and you so beautiful sitting here in the
middle of it all. Then I played it for him; and he said he could
see it all just as plain! And that was with his inside eyes! And
so, if Joe, shut up there in his dark little room, can make his
think bring him all that, I should think that you, here in this
beautiful, beautiful place, could make your think bring you
anything you wanted it to."
But Miss Holbrook sighed again and shook her head.
 "Not that, David, not that," she murmured. "It would take more
than thinking to bring—that." Then, with a quick change of
manner, she cried: "Come, come, suppose we don't worry any more
about my hours. Let's think of yours. Tell me, what have you been
doing since I saw you last? Perhaps you have been again to—to
see Mr. Jack, for instance."
"I have; but I saw Jill mostly, till the last." David hesitated,
then he blurted it out: "Lady of the Roses, do you know about the
gate and the footbridge?"
Miss Holbrook looked up quickly.
"Know about them—that they're there?"
"Why—yes, of course; at least, I suppose you mean the footbridge
that crosses the little stream at the foot of the hill over
"That's the one." Again David hesitated, and again he blurted out
the burden of his thoughts. "Lady of the Roses, did you
ever—cross that bridge?"
Miss Holbrook stirred uneasily.
"But you don't mind folks crossing it?"
"Certainly not—if they wish to."
 "There! I knew 't was n't your blame," triumphed David.
"Yes; that Mr. Jack would n't let Jill come across, you know. He
called her back when she'd got halfway over once." Miss
Holbrook's face changed color.
"But I do object," she cried sharply, "to their crossing it when
they don't want to! Don't forget that, please."
"But Jill did want to."
"How about her brother—did he want her to?"
"Very well, then. I did n't, either."
David frowned. Never had he seen his beloved Lady of the Roses
look like this before. He was reminded of what Jill had said
about Jack: "His face was all stern and white, and his lips
snapped tight shut after every word." So, too, looked Miss
Holbrook's face; so, too, had her lips snapped tight shut after
her last words. David could not understand it. He said nothing
more, however; but, as was usually the case when he was
perplexed, he picked up his violin and began to play. And as he
 gradually came to Miss Holbrook's eyes a softer
light, and to her lips lines less tightly drawn. Neither the
footbridge nor Mr. Jack, however, was mentioned again that