About him the room, save for the yellow night-light above his head, was dark, humped with shadows, with grey pools of light near the windows, and a golden bar that some lamp beyond the house flung upon the wall.

Ernest Henry lay and, now and again, cautiously felt the bump on his forehead; there was butter on the bump, and an interesting confusion and pain and importance round and about it.
Ernest Henry's eyes sought the golden bar, and then, lingering there, looked back upon the recent adventure.

He had walked; yes, he had walked.

This would, indeed, be something to tell his Friend.
His friend, he knew, would be very shortly with him.

It was not every night that he came, but always, before his coming, Ernest Henry knew of his approach--knew by the happy sense of comfort that stole softly about him, knew by the dismissal of all those fears and shapes and terrors that, otherwise, so easily beset him.