It had been the possibilities in a piece of crayon.

All through childhood the boy had drawn his beloved "pictures" on every inviting space that offered,--whether it were the "best-room" wall-paper, or the fly leaf of the big plush album,--and at eighteen he had announced his determination to be an artist.

For a year after that Simeon Holly fought with all the strength of a stubborn will, banished chalk and crayon from the house, and set the boy to homely tasks that left no time for anything but food and sleep--then John ran away.
That was fifteen years ago, and they had not seen him since; though two unanswered letters in Simeon Holly's desk testified that perhaps this, at least, was not the boy's fault.
It was not of the grown-up John, the willful boy and runaway son, however, that Simeon Holly and his wife were thinking, as they stood just inside the barn door; it was of Baby John, the little curly-headed fellow that had played at their knees, frolicked in this very barn, and nestled in their arms when the day was done.
Mrs.Holly spoke first--and it was not as she had spoken on the porch.
"Simeon," she began tremulously, "that dear child must go to bed!" And she hurried across the floor and up the stairs, followed by her husband.

"Come, David," she said, as she reached the top; "it's time little boys were asleep! Come!" Her voice was low, and not quite steady.

To David her voice sounded as her eyes looked when there was in them the far-away something that hurt.