He went into the owl-room again, and stood there
silently a long, long time. Then he stole back again toward the
library door, but caught a glimpse of that old, motionless shoe
through the doorway as he came near. Then he spied no more. He
went out to the stable, and, secluding himself in his studio, sat
moodily to meditate.

Something was the matter. Something had gone wrong. He had thrown
a bomb which he had expected to go off with a stupendous bang,
leaving him, as the smoke cleared, looking down in merry triumph,
stinging his fallen enemies with his humour, withering them with
satire, and inquiring of them how it felt, now _they_ were getting
it. But he was decidedly untriumphant: he wished Laura had moved
her foot and that she hadn't that patch upon her shoe. He could
not get his mind off that patch. He began to feel very queer: it
seemed to be somehow because of the patch. If she had worn a pair
of new shoes that morning. . . . Yes, it was that patch.

Thirteen is a dangerous age: nothing is more subtle. The boy,
inspired to play the man, is beset by his own relapses into
childhood, and Hedrick was near a relapse.

By and by, he went into the house again, to the library. Laura was
not there, but he found the fire almost smothered under heaping
ashes. She had burned her book.

He went into the room where the piano was, and played "The Girl on
the Saskatchewan" with one finger; then went out to the porch and
walked up and down, whistling cheerily.

After that, he went upstairs and asked Miss Peirce how his father
was "feeling," receiving a noncommital reply; looked in at Cora's
room; saw that his mother was lying asleep on Cora's bed and Cora
herself examining the contents of a dressing-table drawer; and
withdrew. A moment later, he stood in the passage outside Laura's
closed door listening. There was no sound.

He retired to his own chamber, found it unbearable, and,
fascinated by Laura's, returned thither; and, after standing a
long time in the passage, knocked softly on the door.

"Laura," he called, in a rough and careless voice, "it's kind of a
pretty day outdoors. If you've had your nap, if I was you I'd go
out for a walk." There was no response. "I'll go with you," he
added, "if you want me to."

He listened again and heard nothing. Then he turned the knob
softly. The door was unlocked; he opened it and went in.

Laura was sitting in a chair, with her back to a window, her hands
in her lap. She w