"What is the matter with her?" asked Felion, beckoning the lad inside.
The lad came and stood in the doorway, gazing round curiously, while the old man sat down and looked at him, moved, he knew not why.
The bright steel of Felion’s axe, standing in the corner, caught the lad’s eye and held it. Felion saw, and said: "What are you thinking of?"
The lad answered: "Of the axe. When I’m bigger I will cut down trees and build a house, a bridge, and a city. Aren’t you coming quick to help my mother? She will die if you don’t come."
Felion did not answer, and from the trees without two women watched him anxiously.
"Why should I come?" asked Felion curiously.
"Because she’s sick, and she’s my mother."
"Why should I do it because she’s your mother?"
"I don’t know," the lad answered, and his brow knitted in the attempt to think it out, "but I like you." He came and stood beside the old man and looked into his face with a pleasant confidence. "If your mother was sick, and I could heal her, I would—I know I would—I wouldn’t be afraid to go down into the village."
Here were rebuke, love, and impeachment, all in one, and the old man half started from his seat.
"Did you think I was afraid?" he asked of the boy, as simply as might a child of a child, so near are children and wise men in their thoughts.
"I knew if you didn’t it’d be because you were angry or were afraid, and you didn’t look angry."
"How does one look when one is angry?"
"Like my father."
"And how does your father look?"
