His deep blue eyes looked past the
pitcher at his father, then at his mother, taking in all their
descriptions of poverty with a wondrous pitifulness. But he did not say
much. What went on in his long head I do not know, for his was one of
those heads that projected forward and backward, and the top of which
overhung the base, for all the world like a load of hay. Now and then his
mother looked at him, as if she would like to see through and read his
thoughts. But I think she didn't see anything but the straight, silken,
fine, flossy hair, silvery white, touched a little bit--only a little--as
he turned it in looking from one to the other, with a tinge of what
people call a golden, but what is really a sort of a pleasant straw
color. He usually talked, and asked questions, and laughed like other
boys; but now he seemed to be swallowing the words of his father and
mother more rapidly even than he did his dinner; for, like most boys, he
ate as if it were a great waste of time to eat. But when he was done he
did not hurry off as eagerly as usual to reading or to play. He sat and
listened.
"What makes you look so sober, Willie?" asked Helen, his sister.
"What you thinkin', Willie?" said Curlypate, peering through the pitcher
handle at him.
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