Chicken Little did not wait for Frank's verdict, she slipped out the door in search of Sherm. Her first guess was the stables and she made a hurried survey of stalls and hay mow. He was not there. She tried the orchard next, then the arbor. Perhaps he had taken one of the ponies and gone for a ride. No, she remembered both Calico and Caliph had whinnied as she went by their stalls. He might have walked down the lane. She went clear to the ford and hunted among the trees for a short distance up and down the bank. He was nowhere in sight. Coming back, she caught sight of the tops of the Weeping Willows and, remembering that Sherm sometimes went there Sundays with a book, she stole up quietly. He had thrown himself down on the ground under the interlacing branches. No, he was not crying--just lying perfectly still, staring up into the boughs above him with such misery in his face, it hurt her to see him. She hardly knew what to do. She knew Ernest generally preferred to be let alone when things went wrong, but then Ernest had never come up against any real trouble. She suspected that Sherm's was very real. Chicken Little watched him for several minutes, undecided. He did not stir. Finally, she decided she didn't care whether Sherm wanted her round or not, she wasn't going to go off and leave him to grieve all alone. "Sherm," she called softly. The boy raised up on his elbow. "What do you want?" he asked rather gruffly. His manner didn't suggest any longing for her society, but she persevered. "I won't bother you but just a minute, Sherm, but I'm awful sorry--about your father--and college and everything." Sherm did not answer or look at her. The tender note of sympathy in her voice was imperilling his self-control. He didn't mean to play the baby, especially before a girl. But the braver the boy was, the more Chicken Little burned to comfort him. She stood for a moment staring at him helplessly, the tears welling up into her own eyes. Then on a sudden impulse she dropped down beside him, and before he could protest, began to stroke his hair. Sherm tolerated the caressing fingers for a few minutes, but his pride would not let him accept even this comforting. He dabbed his eyes fiercely. "Don't, Chicken Little, don't! You're a trump to stand by a fellow this way. I am all right--I just got to thinking about Father--and Sue's going." Sherm would have carried it off beautifully if he hadn't attempted a smile, but his heart was too sore to quite manage that. The smile vanished in a hasty gulp, and, burying his face on his arm, he had it out. Chicken Little's eyes were redder than Sherm's when she got up to go back to the house. Sherm noticed her tear-stained appearance. "Wait a minute," he ordered bruskly. He ran down to the spring stream just beyond the willows and soaking and rinsing out his handkerchief, brought it dripping to her. "Mop your eyes, Jane, they look awful. There--that's better. I'll be along pretty soon!"