springs to prevent jarring.  The sides and roof of the vehicle were of lightly paneled wood, instead of the usual hooked canvas frame of the ordinary emigrant wagon, and fitted with a glazed door and movable window for light and air.  Clarence wondered why the big, powerful man, who seemed at home on horseback, should ever care to sit in this office like a merchant or a lawyer; and if this train sold things to the other trains, or took goods, like the peddlers, to towns on the route; but there seemed to be nothing to sell, and the other wagons were filled with only the goods required by the party.  He would have liked to ask Mr. Peyton who he was, and have questioned him as freely as he himself had been questioned.  But as the average adult man never takes into consideration the injustice of denying to the natural and even necessary curiosity of childhood that questioning which he himself is so apt to assume without right, and almost always without delicacy, Clarence had no recourse.  Yet the boy, like all children, was conscious that if he had been afterwards questioned about this inexplicable experience, he would have been blamed for his ignorance concerning it.  Left to himself presently, and ensconced between the sheets, he lay for some moments staring about him.  The unwonted comfort of his couch, so different from the stuffy blanket in the hard wagon bed which he had shared with one of the teamsters, and the novelty, order, and cleanliness of his surroundings, while they were grateful to his instincts, began in some vague way to depress him.  To his loyal nature it seemed a tacit infidelity to his former rough companions to be lying here; he had a dim idea that he had lost that independence which equal discomfort and equal pleasure among them had given him.  There seemed a sense of servitude in accepting this luxury which was not his.  This set him endeavoring to remember something of his father’s house, of the large rooms, drafty staircases, and far-off ceilings, and the cold formality of a life that seemed made up of strange faces; some stranger—­his parents; some kinder—­the servants; particularly the black nurse who had him in charge.  Why did Mr. Peyton ask him about it?  Why, if it were so important to strangers, had not his mother told him more of it?  And why was she not like this good woman with the gentle voice who was so kind to—­to Susy?  And what did they mean by making him so miserable?  Something rose in his throat, but with an effort he choked it back, and, creeping from the lounge, went softly to the window, opened it to see if it “would work,” and looked out.  The shrouded camp fires, the stars that glittered but gave no light, the dim moving bulk of a patrol beyond the circle, all seemed to intensify the darkness, and changed the current of his thoughts.  He remembered what Mr. Peyton had said of him when they first met.  “Suthin of a pup, ain’t he?” Surely that meant something that was not bad!  He crept back to the couch again.