WHAT are you doing?” She was standing on tiptoe, her eyes barely over the edge of the table, watching Simeon’s pencil as it moved over the paper.  
The pencil continued its curious tracks. Simeon’s eyes were fixed on it intently. There was no reply.
 
She watched it a few minutes in silence. She and Simeon were good friends. They did not mind the silence, but he would answer—if he heard—“What are you doing?” It was very quiet—but firm—in the clear, high voice.
 
He looked down. Then he smiled into the level eyes. “I’m drawing a map,” he said.
 
She found a chair and pushed it to the table. She climbed into it and knelt with her fat arms folded in front of her on the table, bending toward the paper.
 
Simeon paid no heed to her. The pencil went its absent-minded way.
 
It was no unusual thing for them to be silent a long while, with an occasional smile or nod between them, she intent on grave matters, Simeon following hazy, wavering thoughts.
 
But he had never chosen to make pictures. This was something important and different. She leaned closer, her shoulder touching his. “Is that a pig?” she asked politely. Her finger indicated a shape in one corner.
 
“That is a mountain,” said Simeon. He sketched in a tree or two to verify it.
 
“It ’s a funny mountain,” she said. She drew in her breath a little, watching the pencil respectfully.
 
“It is full of beautiful things,” said Simeon.
 
She bent closer to examine it. “Can you see them?” She lifted serious eyes to his.
 
“Yes, I see them—very plain. There is iron and copper and lead—” his pencil touched the paper, here and there, in little dots, “and silver.”
 
“And gold—” said the child in a soft, monotonous voice. They were playing a game.
 
“Not much gold, I’m afraid,” said Simeon, shaking his head, “but it is a wonderful mountain full of beautiful things—that can’t get out.”
 
“Why can’t they get out?” she demanded as if some foolish mystery lay behind his talk.
 
He hesitated a moment. “A bad man keeps them there,” he said. “He has the key.”
 
“Won’t he let ’em out?” It was a shrewd little wondering, groping question toward the truth, but it was full of sing-song happiness.
 
She nestled closer while the pencil went its way, drawing two long lines that stretched side by side across the paper. They readied the mountain and stopped.
 
“What is that?” she asked.
 
“That is a railroad that the bad man will build,” he said, putting in some extra lines.
 
They watched the pencil in silence.
 
“I know a bad man,” she said idly, as if it were not important, but worth mentioning since it concerned Ellen.
 
“Do you?” The surprise in the tone was partly real. “Do you know a bad man?”
 
“Yes—I know one.” It was a modest little drawl—an assertion of wisdom tinged with importance. “He’s a very bad man,” she added.
 
“No?”
 
The half-teasing note did not touch her. “He kills folks—He killed my father,” she said tersely. The words were light on her tongue, but she nodded to him with deep serious eyes that his could not fathom. Something in the eyes hurt him—a kind of trust and ignorance and deep appeal. He put his arm protectingly about the little form, drawing it close.
 
“You must not say things like that, Ellen.”
 
“Gran’ther says it.”
 
“But you must not.... You will not say it again—?” It was half a command. “Don’t ever say it again, Ellen.”
 
“No—o—” It............