It was not very long after when Em came out at the back door with a towel thrown across her head, and in her hand a cup of milk.
“Ah,” she said, coming close to him, “he is sleeping now. He will find it when he wakes, and be glad of it.”
She put it down upon the ground beside him. The mother-hen was at work still among the stones, but the chickens had climbed about him and were perching on him. One stood upon his shoulder, and rubbed its little head softly against his black curls: another tried to balance itself on the very edge of the old felt hat. One tiny fellow stood upon his hand, and tried to crow; another had nestled itself down comfortably on the old coat-sleeve and gone to sleep there.
Em did not drive them away; but she covered the glass softly at his side. “He will wake soon,” she said, “and be glad of it.”
But the chickens were wiser.