But Henry threw himself flat on the grass,--we had sat down to rest a
minute because I was tired, and didn't say anything at all for a
long time.

Then he lifted his head and his white teeth showed, and his eyes smiled
at me, and he said quite softly, "I am not going back."

Oh, how queer I felt when he said those words. Maybe it was as Aunty
May said, because I hadn't enough breakfast in my insides, but
everything went round like a clock for a minute, the sky, the trees, and
the strange road, and the strange houses, and then I said in a funny
voice, "Oh, Henry, you don't mean that."

He said, "Yes, I am tired of everything there"; and he pointed down the
road we had come along. "I am going back to my own people; back to
the school."

Then he offered to take me with him, and to carry me part of the way, as
I was little and got tired too easily to keep up with him. But though
he was kind, and I wanted very much to go with him, and not be left
alone, I couldn't, because I remembered this was the day Aunty May was
coming home; and now, what would she and the Turners think of me!

I was so sorry that I was pretty near crying, except that the Indian boy
was looking at me with his bright eyes, and I remembered that Indians do
not cry, and would think me a poor kind of a boy if I did.

So I just shook my head, and told him I must go back and meet Aunty May.
He didn't like this, until I had promised him that I would only say he'd
left me and had gone on to Carlisle, and I would not say where he'd