CHAPTER VIII 



SANCTUAEY 



Shan sat with his elbows on the leveled log 

 which served the Feather Man for a table, staring 

 out vaguely at the chestnut trees. The bo}^ had 

 been looking at a portfolio of water-color jDaiut- 

 ings of birds, but for at least ten minutes, h: had 

 not turned a page. The Feather Man, watching 

 him, said nothing, waiting for the boy to speak. 



They had become good friends. In his first dis- 

 tress, and knowing that his uncle disliked the peo- 

 ple of the village and respected the Feather Man, 

 Shan had hurried back to the yellow house among 

 the chestnuts on that same day of Bull Adam's 

 death, and the former professor had taken full 

 charge of all the things necessary to be done. 



"Mr. Feather Man," s^id the boy at last, "I 

 can't make out just what I ought to do." 



The other had been expecting and waiting for 

 some such remark. He laid down his paint-brush 

 and leaned back in his chair. 

 2S8 



