at he dropped from view.

Lewis and Shenton stared at each other. Natalie began to cry. Lewis
picked up the brick and slipped it back into place. Shenton helped him
wedge it in with twigs; then all three stole away, to break into giggles
and laughter when distance gave them courage.

Natalie and Lewis had another terror, unshared by Shenton. Manoel, the
Portuguese gardener, who lived in a little two-room house in the hollow,
had nothing but scowls for them. They feared him with the instinctive
fear of children, but Shenton was his friend. Did any little tiff arise,
Shenton was off to see Manoel. He knew the others were afraid to follow.
Sometimes Manoel took him to his little house.

To Lewis this strange friendship was the one cloud in childhood's happy
sky. He could not have defined what he felt. It was jealousy mixed with
hurt pride--jealousy of the hated Manoel, hurt pride at the thought that
Shenton went where he could not follow.

One day Shenton had been gone an hour. Lewis had seen him with Manoel.
He knew he was in Manoel's house. What were they doing? Lewis turned to
Natalie.

"I am going to Manoel's house. Stay here."

Natalie stared at him with wide eyes.

"O, Lewis," she cried after him, "aren't you _'fraid_?"

Lewis crawled stealthily to a back window. He stood on tiptoe and tried
to look in. His eyes were just below the level of the window-sill. He
dragged a log of wood beneath the window and climbed upon it. For a long
time he kept his face glued against one of the little square panes of
glass.

He forgot fear. In the room which the window commanded was a broad,
rough table, and Manoel was seated on a bench before it, leaning
forward, his long arms outstretched along its edge. The table was pushed
almost against the wall, and in its center stood Shenton, laughing till
the tears ran down his cheeks. His curly hair was damp and clung to his
white forehead. His blouse was soiled, his kilt awry. One short stocking
had fallen down over his shoe. Manoel was also laughing, but silently.

Lewis did not have to wait long to divine the source of mirth, for
Shenton soon essayed to walk the length of the table. Lifting his arm,
he pointed along a crack, and swung one leg around to take a first step.
But he seemed unable to place his foot as he wished. He reeled and fell
in a giggling ball, which Manoel saved from rolling to the floor.

Shrieks of laughter, deadened by the closed window, came from the chi