seem to see them, but would gaze beyond them—­the pupils of his full, soft, grey eyes darkening and dilating as if they were held by some weird vision invisible to all eyes save his own; and indeed the belief was general among his friends that he was endowed with the power of seeing visions.  This impression had been made even upon his old “Mammy,” when he was a mite of a lad.  Many a time, when he turned that abstracted gaze upon her, she had said to him,

“What dat you lookin’ at now, Honey?  You is bawn to see evil sho’!”

* * * * *

And now a glimpse of Edgar Goodfellow—­the normal Edgar, whom his chums saw oftenest and loved best, because they knew him best and understood him best.

It was a late Autumn Saturday—­one of the Saturdays sent from Heaven for the delight of school-children—­bracing, but not cold; and brilliant.  Little Robert Sully looked pensively out of the window thinking what a fine day it would be for a country tramp, if only he were like other boys and could take them.  But Rob was of frail build and constitution and could never stand much exertion.  In his eyes was the expression of settled wistfulness that frequent disappointment will bring to the eyes of a delicate child; in the droop of his mouth there was a touch of bitterness, for he was thinking that not only did his weak body make it impossible for him to keep up with the boys, but that it was no doubt, a relief to the boys to leave him behind—­that when he could be with them he was perhaps a drag on their pleasure.  No doubt they would make a long day of it, this bright, bracing Saturday, for the persimmons and the fox-grapes were ripe and the chinquapin and chestnut burrs were opening.  Tears of self-pity sprang to his eyes, but they were quickly dashed away as he heard his name called and saw his beloved Eddie, flushed and glowing with anticipated pleasure, at the gate.

“Come along, Rob,” he was calling.  “We are going to the Hermitage woods for chinquapins, and you must come too.  Uncle Billy is going for a load of pine-tags, and we can ride in his wagon, so it won’t tire you.”

The other boys were waiting at the corner, all at the highest pitch of mirth, for they saw that their idol, Eddie, was in one of his happiest moods, which would mean a morning of unbounded fun to them.  And the ride with old Uncle Billy who, with black and shiny face, beaming upon them in an excess of kindliness, hair like a full-blown cotton-boll, and quaint talk, was an unfailing source of delight to them!

The Saturday freedom was in their blood.  Off and away they went in the jolly, rumbling wagon, past houses and gardens, and fields and into the enchanting, autumn-colored woods, where “Bob Whites” were calling to each other and nuts were dropping in the rustling leaves or waiting to be shaken from their open burrs.

As they jolted along, the steady stream of conversation between Edgar and Uncle Billy was as good as a play to the rest of the boys—­Edgar, with grave, courteous manner, discoursing of “cunjurs” and “ha’nts” with as real an air of belief as that of the old man himself.