twelve, so quiet that one coming suddenly into the room might have fancied him sleeping. But with a sudden weary sigh he turned his head on the pillow, and pulled the gay afghan more closely around his shoulders, dropping, as he did so, two or three chocolate creams left from some previous feast.
“Oh, dear!” he said, half aloud, half to himself, “mother’ll scold if those get smashed on the carpet.” And, slowly getting down on the floor, he felt carefully about, evidently trying to find the missing candy, which lay, plainly visible, near the fender. At last his hand touched it, and, putting it on a table that stood close to the sofa, loaded with fruit, flowers, and candy, he impatiently threw himself down and covered himself again.
He was a handsome boy, with his light brown hair, swarthy skin, and great, dreamy, brown eyes; but his dark skin had no flush of health, and the beautiful eyes had a vacant, blank look, while the boy face wore a fretful, discontented expression, rarely seen in one so young. This was Fred Allen, who, ten months before, had been a leading spirit among the lads of his age.
