But he always followed the light with a sigh and uncomplainingly settled down again.

Sometimes they even snatched the book out of his hands.

In that case he sat looking down at his empty fingers, dreaming over his own thoughts as contentedly as though the living page were in his vision.

There was small satisfaction in tormenting him in these ways.
Tonight they dared not bother him.

The stained hands were still in their minds, and the tremendous, joyous laughter as he whirled the stump over his head still rang in their ears.