Ernest Henry lay and, now and again,
cautiously felt the bump on his forehead; there was butter on the bump,
and an interesting confusion and pain and importance round and about it.
Ernest Henry's eyes sought the golden bar, and then, lingering there,
looked back upon the recent adventure. He had walked; yes, he had
walked. This would, indeed, be something to tell his Friend.
His friend, he knew, would be very shortly with him. It was not every
night that he came, but always, before his coming, Ernest Henry knew of
his approach--knew by the happy sense of comfort that stole softly about
him, knew by the dismissal of all those fears and shapes and terrors
that, otherwise, so easily beset him. He sucked his thumb now, and felt
his bump, and stared at the ceiling and knew that he would come. During
the first months after Ernest Henry's arrival on this planet his friend
was never absent from him at all, was always there, drawing through his
fingers the threads of the old happy life and the new alarming one,
mingling them so that the transition from the one to the other might not
be too sharp--reassuring, comforting, consoling.
Pages:
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69