t have thought him dead, flat on his back, ankles crossed, hands peacefully folded.
It was the middle of the night when he waked.
The old woman was there, crouched between the lounge and the fire. God knew how her poor bones ached. The Poor Boy would never know.
"Put your arms around me like old times and tell me you know I didn't do it."
There arose in the room, like sad music, the sound of the old woman's sobbing.
"I'm so tired," said the Poor Boy, "and so glad."
This time he slept till morning.
For many days it appeared as if the Poor Boy's entire efforts were directed into an attempt to sleep off his troubles. Experience was like a drug of which he could not rid himself; he waked, tried to read, tried to walk, tried to enjoy looking out over the valley, and soon gave it up, and threw himself on his bed, or on the big lounge in the living-room. And these days, of course, so the pendulum swings, w