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“There was no time,” said Martha, tremulous with joy, for she had been much praised, “to put the landscape to rights.”

The Poor Boy looked up into the blue vault of heaven.

“Stone walls,” he said, “and that, have been my landscape.”

“But now,” she said, “any day you like you can view the world from here to the North Pole.”

He smiled.

“That way’s south, Martha,” he said, “but it will do. We own all the way to the ocean that way; but north only to the lake where the river rises. But even that’s a day’s travel. Oh, there’s room enough even for me, and there’s a great deal too much for you, you poor old dear. But have you made friends in the village? You must have them up to see you, days when I’m off somewhere or other. And you must have a helper, I see that. Yes, you must. If necessary, I’ll face him, or her. I won’t have you breaking down with looking after me. Don’t say a word. I know you. You think it would be high jinks to wear your eyes out and your hands off for me, but I won’t have it. The cottage is bigger than I remember. But maybe you’ve added to it, you old witch.”

He stepped to the very edge of the cliff and looked straight down, to where, two hundred feet below, the perpendicular was first broken by a slope of titanic bowlders, among which the trunks of dwarfed pines twisted here and there into the light, from the deep-buried soil.

“How easy,” he thought, “to make an end!”

A dozen feet away old Martha fussed and fumed, like a hen over a duckling.

“Come back! Come back!” she said.

But the Poor Boy put on his teasing face, and danced a double shuffle, on the very edge of the big drop. Then, as suddenly, the fun went out of his eyes, and he came back.

“Oh, Martha,” he said, his hand on her shoulder, “I am so tired.”

Upon the great leather lounge in front of the living-room fire, he lay down. His ankles crossed, his hands crossed, his eyes on the ceiling, he looked like those effigies of knights which you have seen on tombs.

His eyes closed. He could hear her, dimly, putting wood on the fire.

“Yes,” he said, “you must have help. I see that,” the handsome mouth smiled; “‘only I don’t really see it, said Alice,'” he went on, “‘because my eyes are closed, and I am falling so fast into a deep dark well that the white rabbit will never, never catch up with me.’ Bet you a box of candy, Martha, you can’t pry my eyes open with a crowbar.”

For a long time the old woman dared not move, for fear her boots might creak. She continually wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and rather than snuffle, heroically endured a running nose.

He had grown up in her care. Between herself and nature it was always a close race as to which should be the first to know his needs. But even to a stranger it must now have been obvious that he had not slept well for a long time. His face, having passed from under the control of his intellect, was haggard and harassed, the muscles of expression twitched and jumped. The hands upon his breast, their fingers interlocked, strained, and twisted.

A shoe creaked, a strong, cool hand lay lightly on the Poor Boy’s forehead. He became quiet, one by one his muscles went into a state of complete relaxation; he breathed now with long, slow breaths. An hour passed.

The hand was lifted from his forehead, two shoes creaked a number of times, there was a rustling of heavy curtains, four times repeated; at each rustling the room grew darker. A door closing sounded faintly. The Poor Boy slept on. But for his breathing you might have thought him dead, flat on his back, ankles crossed, hands peacefully folded.