black," muttered Van, his glance strained dreamily. "She was good to me. She used to sing sweet songs—just like a mother would. I never had a mother, to remember."
Van's eyes began to fill with tears. Ralph was touched at the recognition of his mother's gentleness. Emotion had lightened the shadows in Van's mind more powerfully than suggestion or memory.
Ralph felt that he had better rouse his companion from a retrospective mood.
"You're all right now," he said briskly.
"And I was knocked silly?" observed Van. "I see how it was. I've been like a man in a long sleep. How did I come out of it, though?"
"Just as you went into it—with a shock. I took you for a trip on a locomotive. Just as we got near here you made a sudden jump, rolled down the embankment, your head burst through that fence board yonder, and I thought you were killed."
Van felt over his head. He winced at a sensitive touch at one spot, but said, with a light laugh:
"I've got a cast-iron skull, I guess! But what made me jump from the locomotive? Did I have daffy fits?"
"Oh, not at all."
