He
was never to see it when the human beings in it would count more than
its furniture, and the human life in it more than the house itself. He
had come, a year and a half ago, into the very place that his dreams
had, from the beginning, built for him. Those large, high rooms with the
shining floors, the hooded furniture, the windows gaping without their
curtains, the shadows and broad squares of light, the little whispers
and rattles that doors and cupboards gave, the swirl of the wind as it
sprang released from corners and crevices, the lisp of some whisper,
"I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm coming!" that, nevertheless, again and
again defeated expectation. How could he but enjoy the fine field of
affection that these provided for him?
His mother watched him with maternal pride. "He's _that_ contented!" she
would say. "Any other child would plague your life away, but 'Enery----"
It was part of Henry's unusual mind that he wondered at nothing. He
remained in constant expectation, but whatever was to come to him it
would not bring surprise with it. He was in a world where anything might
happen.
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