He did not ask her whence or whither; she had no apologies or regrets. Two vagabonds from every law of home and duty, they were as peaceful and unthoughtful of yesterday's bed and to-morrow's meal as William Thayer, who slept in the sun at their feet. For long they did not talk. An unspoken comprehension, an essential comradeship, filled the deep spaces of silence that frighten and irritate those whom only custom has associated; and Caroline, flat on her filled stomach, her nose in the grass, was close in thought and vague well-being to the boy who puffed blue rings toward the little river, his head on his arms. "I put the plate into that door in the barn," he said, finally. "Did you put those silver things back?" Caroline grunted assent. "But they wouldn't think that you--what you said," she assured him earnestly. "It's only tramps they're afraid of." He glanced quickly over at her, but she was utterly innocent. "One came to the kitchen once, and asked Mary for some hot tea or coffee, and she hadn't any, but she said if he was very hungry she'd give him a piece of bread and butter, and he said to go to hell with her bread and butter. So she doesn't like them." The boy gasped. "You oughtn't to--had you--that isn't just right for you to say, is it?" he asked awkwardly. "What--hell?" Caroline inquired placidly. "No, I s'pose not. Nor damn nor devil, either. But, of course, I know 'em. Those are the only three I know. I guess they're about the worst, though," she added with pardonable pride. "My cousin, the Captain, knows some more. He's twelve 'n a half. But he won't tell 'em to me. He says boys always know more than girls. I suppose," respectfully, "you know more than those three, yourself?" Her companion coughed. "A boy--" he began, then paused, confronted with her round, trustful eyes. "A boy--" he started again, and again he paused. "Oh, well, a boy's different," he blurted, finally. Caroline nodded humbly. "Yes, I know," she murmured. There was silence for a while. The river slipped liquidly over the stones, the white clouds raced along the blue above them, the boy smoked. At length he burst out with: "You're all right, now! You're just a regular little chum, aren't you?" She blushed with pleasure. "I never had anybody along with me," he went on dreamily. "I always go alone. I--I didn't know how nice it was. I _had_ a chum once, but he--he--" The boy's voice trembled. Caroline's face clouded with sympathy. "Did he die?" she ventured. "No," he said, shortly; "no, he didn't die. He's alive. He couldn't stand my ways. I tried to stay in school and--and all that, but soon as spring came I had to be off. So the last time, he told me we had to part, him and me." "What was his name?" she asked gently. The boy jerked his head toward the dog.