“But yours must have been more wonderful than his.”
The boy gave the little grunt that was a survival of his Indian life and turned to go back to the house.
“But all this, I suppose, is as strange to you.”
“More.”
Hugh was polite and apparently sincere in interest, but the lad was vaguely disturbed and he quickened his step. The porch was empty when they turned the corner of the house, but young Harry Dale came running down the steps, his honest face alight, and caught the little Kentuckian by the arm.
“Get ready for supper, Hugh—come on, cousin,” he said, and led the stranger to his room and pointed to the clothes on the bed.
“Don’t they fit?” he asked smiling.
“I don’t know—I don’t know how to git into ’em.”
Young Harry laughed joyously.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t know how to put yours on either. You just wait,” he cried, and disappeared to return quickly with an armful of clothes.