"Some of the boys have been here for you," said his mother. "They left word you must be certain to meet them, in the morning for the game. Freshen yourself up and I'll give you your supper."
Elinor said nothing—a bad sign with her. She sat with her sharp little chin resting on her palms and with her eyes on him with calculating secrecy. He stepped around her.
His room had never seemed so cramped after those hours in the woods under the open sky. The whole cottage seemed so unnatural, everything in the City so unnatural, after that day in the forest.
At supper he had not much to say; his mother talked to him:
"I put my berries away to eat with you for company." They ate their berries together.
He felt tired and said he would go to bed. His room was darkened when he returned to it; he felt sure he had left his lamp burning; someone had been in it. He lighted his lamp again.
As he started toward his window to close the shutters, his eye caught sight of an object hanging from the window sash. A paper was pinned around it. The handwriting was Elinor's. It was a bluejay, brought down by a lucky stone from some cottager's hand. Webster read Elinor's message for him:
"Your favourite Kentucky Warbler,
From your old friend,
Thomas Jefferson."
He sat on the side of his bed. The sights and sounds and fragrances of the pasture were all through him; the sunlight warmed his blood still, the young blood of perfect health.