He opened his eyes again.  The room was growing darker.  He almost forgot his pain for a few moments, noticing how the sunlight was straightened to a narrow lane which reached from the extreme southern end of the window to the floor in front of his mother’s chair.  He watched the last rays as they slowly left the floor and stole up her dress to her lap and her breast, leaving all behind and below in shadow.  Now they had reached her face.  It was bent over her work.  Well he knew that was some Christmas gift, may be for him, — some Christmas gift, and to-morrow was Christmas!  He looked again to see if he could discover what she was making, but the light had left her now, and had risen to the Picture.

Queer picture that it was!  What funny clothes those men wore!  Those long gabardines, mother had called them, reaching almost to the ground; shoes that showed the toes, and hoods for hats.  One of them had none.  How closely they looked at him!.  They didn’t even see which way they were going, and what a long way it was, stretching out there, dusty and hot.

The room was quite dark now save for the light on the narrow road there.  What was yonder little village in the distance?  What kind of a place was Emmaus?  His mother had told him about it; only one street, a long and narrow one; and very few trees; and one or two trading shops only; and the houses low and flat-roofed, with no glass in them; and the sun shining down hot and straight between them, — and (oh, how his head ached!) he was out there looking for Bob Sykes.  Maybe that was he lying on this rude bench with the low cedar-bush over it.  If it were, he would settle matters with him quick.  He would show him — but it wasn’t Bob, it was only a sheep-dog asleep.  So Tommy turned away and walked slowly along the middle of the street.  His face burned with the heat of the sun on his bruises.  He was very thirsty.  Climbing a little hill over which the road lay, he saw on the other side of it another boy coming toward him.  He was rather a peculiar looking boy, with a face thoughtful but pleasant.  He was carrying a heavy sheepskin bag over his shoulder.  Tommy determined to ask him if he knew where there was some water.

“Hello,” he said, as the, boy drew near.

The boy stopped and smiled at Tommy without making reply.

“Where are you going?” said Tommy.

“I am carrying this bag of tools to my father,” the boy answered.

“Do you live here?” asked Tommy.  “It doesn’t seem like much of a place.”

“No,” said the boy, “it isn’t much of a place, but I live here.”

“What sort of tools have you got in your bag?  Who is your father?”

“My father is a carpenter,” answered the boy.

Tommy gave a long, low whistle.  “A carpenter!  Why my father owns a store, and we live in one of the best houses in town.  Fairfield is the name of my town.”

The boy seemed neither to notice the whistle nor the brag; but, allowing the bag to slip from his shoulders to the ground, stood, still smiling, before Tommy.