“You ’re restless, of course,” soothed Nate. “But take it easy for a time longer. It ’ll pay in the end.”
The boy showed a little vexation. “I ’ve got to.”
“Never spoke truer,” agreed Nate. “Settle to it, then.” He took up his tray and turned to go, then turned back once more. “Say,” he asked, “what shall I call you?”
The boy’s eyes flew open, but he did not look at Nate. Doubt showed on his forehead. He looked out of the window, and slowly shook his head.
“I mean,” asked Nate, “can’t we jes’ make up a name between us, for convenience? I don’t want to say ‘Here, you,’ or ‘Say.’ S’posin’ we call you Jack, or Jim.”
The boy spoke in a voice low, but clear. “Call me Rodman.”
“Good,” agreed Nate, heartily. “Might be a fust name, or a last. If ever you think up another name to go behind it, or in front, jes’ let me know. We can use the combination for your post-office address. Good-by—Rodman.”
In a half-hour, Nate came back, carrying an armful of clothes. “Might as well get up,” he said. “It ’ll be more cheerful than lyin’ here.” He assisted Rodman to dress, and then brought him a crutch. “Thar,” he said, “thet crutch is lighter an’ stronger than anythin’ you ’ll find in the stores. And now, young man, hobble!”
Rodman looked about him as he went. The next room was a kind of sitting-room, with a desk in one corner. Next was a little kitchen, An open door beyond showed the interior of a shed in which were bands and pulleys above a square tub that stood in the middle of the floor. “The workshop,” explained Nate, waving his hand in that direction. “But we ’ll go outside.”
Out on the grass stood a chair on which Rodman’s attention immediately fastened. The back sloped at an easy angle, and was intended to hold the sitter in a half-reclining position. It was made of natural wood, the frame being of unpeeled sticks skilfully bent, and the back and seat of thin strips of wood, with the bark on, cleverly woven together.
“Good, ain’t it?” asked Nate, frankly. "I made it myself.”
Rodman looked at the chair. “It looks comfortable,” he agreed. “But it ’s quite new.”
“Certainly,” said Nate. “I thought you ’d need one. It ’s better than store chairs—fits your back better.”
Slowly, carefully, the boy sat down. He lifted his leg into position, and settled himself so as to put no strain on the ankle. But all the time, though he said nothing, his face was working, And again two tears stood on his cheeks.
“Cheerfully!” warned Nate.
Rodman looked up into his face. “You do a great deal for me. And I ’m a perfect stranger to you.”
“Are ye?” inquired Nate, shrewdly. “How do you know that?”
The boy’s face flushed; he was startled. Nate laughed. “Of course you ’re a stranger,” he said. “Otherwise I should know your name. Do you like the chair?”
“Yes,” answered the lad, still confused. “I never saw a better in a city store.”
“Boston?” inquired Nate.
Again the look of doubt. “New York—I think.”
“It ’s no consequence,” Nate said. “Now the doctor wanted you to be in the sun for a while, and outdoors as long as you can stand it. The sun will be on you for half an hour or so, but not in your eyes. When it ’s gone, I ’ll bring a book. If I was you, I ’d sleep if I could.” He went away.
Rodman could not sleep; his pleasure was too keen. To be free of the house, to feel the breeze on his cheek, to see the birds and the hillside and the valley,—all this was pure enjoyment. Again, his heart was warmed by the kindness which surrounded him. He had fallen among friends. He was so satisfied that, even when Nate brought him a book, he did not read. And there was the valley to look at, a narrow place, to be sure, but much larger than his world of the last fortnight. Below him fields alternated with woods: the millpond was broad and still; the town itself had so many shade-trees that it seemed to stand in a grove; and even the mill buildings, covered with vines and standing among elms, were scarcely to be distinguished. Out of the tree-tops rose a spire and a belfry, a pair of cupolas, and perhaps a couple of dozen roofs. There must be dozens more that he could not see, and even the streets were completely hidden.
He could see, however, the roads that led away from the town. There were four of them, running to four quarters of the compass until lost in woods. He fell to watching passers on them, men or boys on foot or in wagons of all kinds. At length, he noticed a light carriage which, drawn by a single horse, was coming in his direction. The occupants he could not make out. He had discovered that this road, as it reached the bottom of the hill, turned aside, and after running for a hundred yards in woods, again appeared, to skirt the base of the ridge. The carriage disappeared, but though he counted on