Eric dropped his ragged coat and cap on the edge of the wood,--it was so
warm,--and went in.

A little girl had been watching him from her place at one of the factory
windows where she was sorting cans. She had seen him before, working at
the factory, day after day, and they had played together sometimes in
the noon half hour. Now she wondered what he was doing out there. Had
they sent him, perhaps, to do a different kind of work that could only
be done in the woods? But as he walked away in under the trees farther
and farther, the golden mist that was over the wood drew in about him;
and although she leaned far forward over the cans at a great risk of
knocking over dozens and setting them rolling,--he was lost in it. It
had dropped down behind him like a curtain.




CHAPTER II

THE BRIGHT HOUSE


Eric knew nothing of the little girl and her thoughts. He was walking in
a golden mist, but he could see quite perfectly, and even far ahead down
long tree aisles. At first the trees did not grow very close together,
and there was little underbrush. Several narrow paths started off in
different directions,--straight little paths made by people who knew
where they were going. But Eric did not know where he was going, so he
struck off in a place where there was no sign of a path. Soon the trees