Van nodded as if he dimly recalled all this.
"You hid in an old factory, or went there to take a nap. A baseball struck your head accidentally. We took you to our home, you have been there since."
"That's queer, I can't remember. Yes--yes, I do, in a way," Van corrected himself sharply. "Was there a chicken house there--oh, such a fine chicken house!" he exclaimed expansively, "with fancy towers made out of laths, and a dandy wind vane on it?"
"You built that chicken house yourself," explained Ralph.
"Oh, go on!" said Van incredulously.
"Well, you did."
"And there was a lady there, dressed in black," muttered Van, his glance strained dreamily. "She was good to me. She used to sing sweet songs--just like a mother would. I never had a mother, to remember."
Van's eyes began to fill with tears. Ralph was touched at the recognition of his mother's gentleness. Emotion had lightened the shadows in Van's mind more powerfully than suggestion or memory.
Ralph felt that he had better rouse his companion from a retrospective mood.
"You're all right now," he said briskly.