“I began to think you never would come back, Nils,” said the boy softly.
“Didn’t I promise you I would?”
“Yes; but people don’t bother about promises they make to babies. Did you really know you were going away for good when you went to Chicago with the cattle that time?”
“I thought it very likely, if I could make my way.”
“I don’t see how you did it, Nils. Not many fellows could.” Eric rubbed his shoulder against his brother’s knee.
“The hard thing was leaving home—you and father. It was easy enough, once I got beyond Chicago. Of course I got awful homesick; used to cry myself to sleep. But I’d burned my bridges.”
“You had always wanted to go, hadn’t you?”
“Always. Do you still sleep in our little room? Is that cottonwood still by the window?”
Eric nodded eagerly and smiled up at his brother in the gray darkness.
“You remember how we always said the leaves were whispering when they rustled at night? Well, they always whispered to me about the sea. Sometimes they said names out of the geography books. In a high wind they had a desperate sound, like something trying to tear loose.”