“Yes, I’m well enough; ’tisn’t that,” replied the boy.
Clark thought that he looked very far from well, but he had his reasons for urging his request.
“You go on home, then, and tell Edith, so she won’t be worrying about you, and I’ll go home and get some luncheon to take along with us, and then I’ll stop for you. We can take the cars up to the end of the line, and walk the rest of the way.”
“Well, I don’t care. Suppose I might as well go as to mope ’round at home,” said Freeman, and with a cheery “That’s good, I’ll be at your house within twenty minutes,” Clark hurried away.
It was cool and restful in the open car, and Clark, seeing that his cousin was disinclined to talk, left him to his thoughts, with only a word now and then. Even after they left the car, and struck into the woods, they spoke but little.
Clark led the way to a cool, shady spot where he knew there was a spring of clear, cold water.
“There!” he said, “sit there and rest, Ray. That big tree trunk makes a splendid support for a tired back. I brought some lemons and sugar, and now I’m going to make some lemonade with this spring water. It’s almost as cold as ice. You can take out the rest of the stuff while I’m gone.”
But when he returned with his kettle of lemonade, the lunch-basket stood, unopened, where he had left it, and his cousin sat with his eyes on the distant hills—his thoughts evidently far away. Clark made no remark, but set out the luncheon himself.
“Come now, pitch in, Ray,” he said, “I’m as hungry as a bear, and I hope you are too. I don’t want to have anything to lug home but the basket and kettle. Here—try my lemonade,” and he filled a glass, and passed it to his cousin.
“I’m not hungry,” objected Freeman, but Clark laughed at him.