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 “Yes,” said Jamie, “that title is of German origin.”

“Was the Bee Master a German?”

“No,” said Jamie. “Never! The Bee Master was British by breeding and training. He happened to be located in our country, but he was of British ancestry if he didn’t go farther and be of British birth.”

“Well, he didn’t go that far,” said the small person. “That’s another thing he told me himself. He was born in Pennsylvania and he found Mary there and he was married there, and he lived there, and the awful tilting rock was in the mountains there.”

“The tilting rock?” asked Jamie.

The little Scout looked down.

“I guess I’m kind of broke up to-day,” was the conclusion reached. “I guess I’ve said two or three things I’d better kept still about. We won’t talk about that rock to-day. Maybe some day I’ll tell you. It’s pretty awful and I don’t sleep well if I get to thinking about it. If I get to thinking hard about it, I can’t very well quit. I want to see him before they send him away. I want to straighten his hair and fix his tie and fold his hands myself, I want to fix his feet comfortable and easy and I would like to put his slippers on him, too.”

Right there Jamie broke down. By that time they had reached the bench under the jacqueranda. He sat down on it and buried his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. The little person stood beside him and put stout arms around his neck.

“Aw,” said the voice, roughened with emotion, “they