When we started off in the wagon I looked at him.

He was sitting on the straw, very quietly, his hands folded, looking in front of him.

He seemed older: the sentimental naivete that had been always in his face seemed now entirely to have left him.

He had always looked before as though he wanted some one to help him out of a position that was too difficult for him; now he was alone in a world where no one could reach him.

During the whole drive to Vulatch we exchanged no word.