"Well, I'm not going, so you needn't let that worry you," he
replied. "I'll stretch myself alongside of you in the straw, and
if you happen to want me, just yell out, you know."

The weak fingers closed tightly about his wrist.

"You promise?" asked the boy.

"Oh, I promise," answered the other, raising the lantern for a
last look before he blew it out.

By early daybreak Will's condition was still more alarming, and
leaving him in a feverish stupor upon the pallet, Christopher set
out hurriedly shortly after sunrise to carry news of the boy's
whereabouts to Fletcher.

It was a clear, cold morning, and the old brick house, set midway
of the autumn fields, appeared, as he approached it, to reflect
the golden light that filled the east. Never had the place seemed
to him more desirable than it did as he went slowly toward it
along the desolate November roads. The somber colours of the
landscape, the bared majesty of the old oaks where a few leaves
still clung to the topmost boughs, the deserted garden filled
with wan specters of summer flowers, were all in peculiar harmony
with his own mood as with the stern gray walls wrapped in naked
creepers. That peculiar sense of ownership was strongly with him
as he ascended the broad steps and lifted the old brass knocker,
which still bore the Blake coat of arms.