Mr. Welles seemed surprised.  “Why, do you drink coffee?”

“Oh no, none of us kids ever take it.  But I thought you’d like some.  Grown-up folks mostly do, when they eat out-of-doors.”

Mr. Welles took the cup of steaming coffee, ready sugared and creamed, without even saying thank you, but in a minute, as they began their second round of sandwiches, filled this time with cold ham from home, he said, “You’ve got quite a way of looking out for folks, haven’t you?

“I like to,” said Paul.

“I always liked to,” said Mr. Welles.

“I guess you’ve done quite a lot of it,” conjectured the little boy.

“Quite a lot,” said the old man, thoughtfully.

Paul never liked to be left behind and now spoke out, “Well, I expect I’ll do a good deal, too.”

“Most likely you will,” agreed the old man.

He spoke a little absently, and after a minute said, “Paul, talking about looking out for folks makes me think of something that’s bothering me like everything lately.  I can’t make up my mind about whether I ought to go on, looking out for folks, if I know folks that need it.  I keep hearing from somebody who lives down South, that the colored folks aren’t getting a real square deal.  I keep wondering if maybe I oughtn’t to go and live there and help her look out for them.”

Paul was so astonished at this that he opened his mouth wide, without speaking.  When he could get his breath, he shouted, “Why, Mr. Welles, go away from Ashley to live!” He stared hard at the old man, thinking he must have got it twisted.  But Mr. Welles did not set him straight, only stared down at the ground with a pale, bothered-looking face and sort of twitched his mouth to one side.

The little boy moved over closer to him, and said, looking up at him with all his might, “Aw, Mr. Welles, I wish’t you wouldn’t!  I like your being here.  There’s lot of things I’ve got planned we could do together.”

It seemed to him that the old man looked older and more tired at this.  He closed his eyes and did not answer.  Paul felt better.  Mr. Welles couldn’t have been in earnest.

How still it was in the woods that day.  Not the least little flutter from any leaf.  The sunlight looked as green, as green, coming down through the trees that way, like the light in church when the sun came in through the stained-glass windows.

The only thing that budged at all was a bird . . . was it a flicker? . . . he couldn’t make out.  It kept hopping around in that big beech tree across the brook.  Probably it was worried about its nest and didn’t like to have people so near.  And yet they sat as still, he and Mr. Welles, as still as a tree, or the shiny water in the pool.

Mr. Welles opened his eyes and took the little boy’s rough, calloused hand in his.  “See here, Paul, maybe you can help me make up my mind.”

Paul squared his shoulders.