Bobaday was very still, lest his grandmother in the tent, or Zene in
the remoter wagon, should insist on his retiring to his uneasy bed
again. He got enough of the carriage in daytime, having counted all
its buttons up and down and crosswise. The smell of the leather and
lining cloth was mixed with every odor of the journey. One can have
too much of a very easy, well-made carriage.
The firelight revealed him in his thoughtful mood: a very white boy
with glistening hair and expanding large eyes of a gray and velvet
texture. Some light eyes have a thin and sleepy surface like inferior
qualities of lining silk; and you cannot tell whether the expression
or the humors of the eye are at fault. But Nature, or his own
meditations on what he read and saw in this delicious world, had
given to Bobaday's irises a softness like the pile of gray velvet,
varied sometimes by cinnamon-colored shades.
His eyes reflected the branches, the other campfires, and many
wagons. It gave him the sensation of again reading for the first time
one of grandfather's Peter Parley books about the Indians, or Mr.
Irving's story of Dolph Heyleger, where Dolph approaches Antony
Vander Heyden's camp.
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