Some were tucked away modestly under the benches, others were
thrust far out under the table, encroaching on Rol's own
particular domain. He stretched out his own short legs and
regarded them critically, and, after comparison, favourably. Why
were not all legs made like his, or like _his_?

These legs approved by Rol were a little apart from the rest. He
crawled opposite and again made comparison. His face grew quite
solemn as he thought of the innumerable days to come before his
legs could be as long and strong. He hoped they would be just like
those, his models, as straight as to bone, as curved as to muscle.

A few moments later Sweyn of the long legs felt a small hand
caressing his foot, and looking down, met the upturned eyes of his
little cousin Rol. Lying on his back, still softly patting and
stroking the young man's foot, the child was quiet and happy for a
good while. He watched the movement of the strong deft hands, and
the shifting of the bright tools. Now and then, minute chips of
wood, puffed off by Sweyn, fell down upon his face. At last he
raised himself, very gently, lest a jog should wake impatience in
the carver, and crossing his own legs round Sweyn's ankle,
clasping with his arms too, laid his head against the knee. Such
act is evidence of a child's most wonderful hero-worship. Quite
content was Rol, and more than content when Sweyn paused a minute
to joke, and pat his head and pull his curls. Quiet he remained,
as long as quiescence is possible to limbs young as his. Sweyn
forgot he was near, hardly noticed when his leg was gently
released, and never saw the stealthy abstraction of one of his
tools.