Before morning came he had told himself
a dozen times that he was nothing more than a sentimental old romancer,
who saw in every beggar a worthy spirit bewitched by Destiny, and a
Circumstance-enchanted fairy-prince in every ragamuffin who chanced to
have big eyes. Merely because they had so persistently denied him
sleep--those thoughts of Old Tom and his cherished tin box and the
boy's own unmistakable poise and surety of self which even the
shuffling boots and ragged clothes had only made the more
impressive--merely because they persisted in endless procession through
his brain, while he rolled and tossed and re-arranged the pillow, he
had grown more and more peevishly eager to discount and discredit them,
during the darkness. But when morning came, and he rose and went into
the big guest room to find it empty, he experienced a moment of panicky
disappointment; suddenly anxious for another opportunity to verify all
that which, in the hours of sleepless pro's and con's, had become
figment-like and whimsical, he wondered if the boy really could have
gone without even waiting to bid them good-bye. He could not make that
abrupt sort of a leave-taking harmonize with the rest of the
youngster's actions--and then he caught a glimpse of him, motionless
there on the verandah steps.
The boy did not hear Caleb's coming that morning. His head was tilted
forward in that keen attitude of straining intentness which to the man
had already become eloquently characteristic of his hungry spirit.
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