He was a great big boy, fifteen or sixteen, and he helped with the work
in the house in the summertime. Henry was always nice to us children,
and we liked him a great deal.

I said "Hullo, Henry, what are you doing in my library?" And he showed
all his teeth at me and said he was doing the same that I was doing
there; he had come up to be sad and alone. Then I told him all about
Aunty May, and he was sorry for me, and he told me about the school, and
the teachers, and football, and his people, and I was sorry for him.

Then he told me that when he got very sorry about everything, sometimes,
he just dressed himself and got out of his bed at night and walked and
walked until he got tired, and then came back and slept.

He told me how lovely everything looked in the country, early in the
morning, and I told him I'd like to do that, too, some morning, but how
did he get up without waking people? Then he showed me how he could move
in his stocking feet and no one could hear him. And it was true. If I
sat with my back to Henry I would still think he was sitting back of me,
when he was over by the door, really. So I practiced that, too. "Playing
Indian," he called it; and he promised next time he had that feeling,
he'd throw some gravel at my window, and I could come down.

[Illustration: I told him all about Aunty May]

I asked him how soon he thought it'd be, and he looked at me very long,
and then, just as somebody called, "Henry, where are you? Come and take
the canoe out," he leaned down and whispered in my ear, "To-night,
be ready."