“Freddie,” she called to him as she entered the house, “Freddie, where air you?” And then she found him. She led him out of the corner and looked him over with a scrutinising eye. “Freddie Brent,” she said solemnly, “you’ve jest ruined yore suit.” He was glad. He wanted to be scolded. “But,” she went on, “I don’t care ef you have.” And here she broke down. “You’re a-goin’ to have another one, fur you’re a right smart boy, that’s all I’ve got to say.” For a moment he wanted to lay his head on her breast and give vent to the sob which was choking him. But he had been taught neither tenderness nor confidence, so he choked back the sob, though his throat felt dry and hot and strained. He stood silent and embarrassed until Miss Prime recovered herself and continued: “But la, child, you’ll take yore death o’ cold. Git out o’ them wet things an’ git into bed, while I make you some hot tea. Fur the life o’ me, I never did see sich carryin’s-on.”
The boy was not sorry to obey. He was glad to be alone. He drank the warm tea and tried to go to sleep, but he could not. His mind was on fire. His heart seemed as if it would burst from his bosom. Something new had come to him. He began to understand, and blushed because he did understand. It was less discovery than revelation. His forehead was hot. His temples were throbbing. It was well that Miss Prime did not discover it: she would have given him horehound to cure—thought!
From the moment that the boy held the form of the girl to his heart he was changed, and she was changed to him. They could never be the same to each other again. Manhood had come to him in a single instant, and he saw in her womanhood. He began for the first time to really know himself, and it frightened him and made him ashamed.
He drew the covers over his head and lay awake, startled, surprised at what he knew himself and mankind to be.
To Fred Brent the awakening had come—early, if we would be prudish; not too early, if we would be truthful.
Chapter VIII
If Fred Brent had needed anything to increase his consciousness of the new feeling that had come to him, he could not have done better to get it than by going to see Eliphalet Hodges next day. His war of thought had gone on all night, and when he rose in the morning he thought that he looked guilty, and he was afraid that Miss Prime would notice it and read his secret. He wanted rest. He wanted to be secure from anyone who would even suspect what was in his heart. But he wanted to see and to talk to someone. Who better, then, than his old friend?
So he finished his morning’s chores and slipped away. He would not pass by Elizabeth’s house, but went by alleys and lanes until he reached his destination. The house looked rather silent and deserted, and Mr. Hodges’ old assistant did not seem to be working in the garden as usual. But after some search the boy found his old friend smoking upon the back porch. There was a cloud upon the usually bright features, and the old man took his pipe from his mouth with a disconsolate sigh as the boy came in sight.
“I’m mighty glad you’ve come, Freddie,” said he, in a sad voice. “I’ve been a-wantin’ to talk to you all the mornin’. Set down on the side o’ the porch, or git a chair out o’ the house, ef you’d ruther.”
The boy sat down, wondering what could be the matter with his friend, and what he could have to say to him. Surely it must be something serious, for the whole tone and manner of his companion indicated something of import. The next remark startled him into sudden suspicion.
“There’s lots o’ things made me think o’ lots of other things in the last couple o’ days. You’ve grown up kind o’ quick like, Freddie, so that a body ain’t hardly noticed it, but that ain’t no matter. You’re up or purty nigh it, an’ you can understand and appreciate lots o’ the things that you used to couldn’t.”
Fred sat still, with mystery and embarrassment written on his face. He wanted to hear more, but he was almost afraid to listen further.
“I ain’t watched you so close, mebbe, as I’d ought to ’a’ done, but when I seen you yistiddy evenin’ holdin’ that little girl in yore arms I said to myself, I said, ‘Liphalet Hodges, Freddie ain’t a child no more; he’s growed up.’ ” The boy’s face was scarlet. Now he was sure that the thoughts of his heart had been surprised, and that this best of friends thought of him as “fresh,” “mannish,” or even wicked. He could not bear the thought of it; again the tears rose in his eyes, usually so free from such evidences of weakness. But the old man went on slowly in a low, half-reminiscent tone, without looking at his auditor to see what effect his words had had. “Well, that was one of the things that set me thinkin’; an’ then there was another.” He cleared his throat and pulled hard at his pipe; something made him blink—dust, or smoke, or tears, perhaps. “Freddie,” he half sobbed out, “old Bess is dead. Pore old Bess died last night o’ colic. I’m afeared the drive to the picnic was too much fur her.”
“Old Bess dead!” cried the boy, grieved and at the same time relieved. “Who would have thought it? Poor old girl! It seems like losing one of the family.”
“She was one of the family,” said the old man brokenly. “She was more faithful than most human beings.” The two stood sadly musing, the boy as sad
