They had been together for an hour or so, and Mrs. Webster had just observed Vera make the third trip to their group of tents and then return to Billy.
She was standing now with her arms filled with papers and magazines, which she had just secured.
Vera laughed. “Oh, Billy hates to move, and I don’t,” she replied a little apologetically.
But Billy, who should have been the apologetic one, did not appear so in the least.
He was sitting on an Indian blanket which had been spread by Vera before their small fire, smiling placidly at his mother and friend.
“Don’t you think people ought to be allowed to do what they like, Mother?”
Billy did not ask this question in a humorous fashion, as one might suppose under the circumstances, but quite seriously. However, Billy nearly always appeared serious, and yet one never could be sure what spirit hid itself behind his large, abstracted blue eyes.
Mrs. Webster sighed as she sat down beside him. Billy was the least satisfying of her three children and she made no pretense of understanding him. Yet his illness and his physical need of her brought him nearer to her than any one in the world.
“I think people ought to do what they like only when they can be perfectly fair to others at the same time,” she answered gently.
This time Billy smiled. “If one is wanting a thing very hard for oneself, it is not always easy to remember other people; although, of course, it is right,” he agreed unexpectedly. “Still I don’t believe I am doing Vera any serious injustice. She does a great deal more of the Camp Fire work than any of the other girls, and yet none of you realize it. The difference between us is that I do realize what she does for me.”