The kitchen window which his mother had opened was directly beneath Laura’s, and was a very long, narrow window, in the style of the house, and there was a protecting stone ledge above it.  Upon this ledge lay the book, wrapped in its oil-skin covering and secured from falling by a piece of broken iron hooping, stuck in the mortar of the bricks.  It could be seen from nowhere save an upper window of the house next door, or from the tree itself, and in either case only when the leaves had fallen.

Laura had felt very safe.  No one had ever seen the book except that night, early in August, when, for a better circulation of air, she had left her door open as she wrote, and Hedrick had come upon her.  He had not spoken of it again; she perceived that he had forgotten it; and she herself forgot that the memory of a boy is never to be depended on; its forgettings are too seldom permanent in the case of things that ought to stay forgotten.

To get the book one had only to lean from the window.

* * *

Hedrick seemed so ill during lunch that his mother spoke of asking Doctor Sloane to look at him, if he did not improve before evening.  Hedrick said meekly that perhaps that would be best—­if he did not improve.  After a futile attempt to eat, he courteously excused himself from the table—­a ceremony which made even Cora fear that his case might be serious—­and, going feebly to the library, stretched himself upon the sofa.  His mother put a rug over him; Hedrick, thanking her touchingly, closed his eyes; and she went away, leaving him to slumber.

After a time, Laura came into the room on an errand, walking noiselessly, and, noticing that his eyes were open, apologized for waking him.

“Never mind,” he returned, in the tone of an invalid.  “I didn’t sleep sound.  I think there’s something the matter inside my head:  I have such terrible dreams.  I guess maybe it’s better for me to keep awake.  I’m kind of afraid to go to sleep.  Would you mind staying here with me a little while?”

“Certainly I’ll stay,” she said, and, observing that his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes unusually bright, she laid a cool hand on his forehead.  “You haven’t any fever, dear; that’s good.  You’ll be all right to-morrow.  Would you like me to read to you?”

“I believe,” he answered, plaintively, “reading might kind of disturb my mind:  my brain feels so sort of restless and queer.  I’d rather play some kind of game.”

“Cards?”

“No, not cards exactly.  Something’ I can do lying down.  Oh, I know!  You remember the one where we drew pictures and the others had to guess what they were?  Well, I’ve invented a game like that.  You sit down at the desk over there and take some sheets of paper.  I’ll tell you the rest.”

She obeyed.  “What next?”

“Now, I’ll describe some people and where they live and not tell who they are, and you see if you can guess their names and addresses.”