“I’ll speak to Uncle Obed about it,” he said to himself. “He isn’t used to cities, to be sure, but he has had a long life, and must have considerable experience. At any rate, he will be better qualified than I to know what ought to be done.”
He had scarcely come to this conclusion before he reached the cottage.
His mother, with a troubled expression of countenance, was sitting at the table, not sewing or mending, as usual, but with her hands clasped in her lap, while near her sat Uncle Obed, also looking sober.
“I am sure something has happened to Harry,” she had just been saying. “I never knew him to stay out so long without telling me.”
“Boys will be boys,” answered the old man, not knowing what else to say. “He’s gone off on some lark with some of his playmates.”
“But he never does that without telling me, Mr. Wilkins. He’s always so considerate.”
“He’ll be coming home safe and sound, depend upon it,” said Uncle Obed, with a confidence greater than he actually felt.
“Perhaps he has fallen from a tree—he was always fond of climbing—and broken his leg,” suggested Mrs. Gilbert, dolefully.
“He’s too smart for that,” said Uncle Obed.
“What should I do if he never came home?” exclaimed the poor woman, with a shudder.