Itwaseveningwhenthehousekeepersummonedhimtothesick-
room。Arthurwaslyingonthesofabytheopenwindow，throughwhichtheraysofthewesternsunstolegently，lightinguphiswhitefaceandgoldenhair。TomrememberedaGermanpictureofanangelwhichheknew；oftenhadhethoughthowtransparentandgoldenandspirit-likeitwas；andheshuddered，tothinkhowlikeitArthurlooked，andfeltashockasifhisbloodhadallstoppedshort，asherealizedhowneartheotherworldhisfriendmusthavebeentolooklikethat。Nevertillthatmomenthadhefelthowhislittlechumhadtwinedhimselfroundhisheart-strings，andashestolegentlyacrosstheroomandkneltdown，andputhisarmroundArthur’sheadonthepillow，feltashamedandhalf-angryathisownredandbrownface，andtheboundingsenseofhealthandpowerwhichfilledeveryfibreofhisbody，andmadeeverymovementofmerelivingajoytohim。
Heneedn’thavetroubledhimself:itwasthisverystrengthandpowersodifferentfromhisownwhichdrewArthursotohim。
Arthurlaidhisthin，whitehand，onwhichtheblueveinsstoodoutsoplainly，onTom’sgreatbrownfist，andsmiledathim；
andthenlookedoutofthewindowagain，asifhecouldn’tbeartoloseamomentofthesunset，intothetopsofthegreatfeatheryelms，roundwhichtherookswerecirclingandclanging，returninginflocksfromtheirevening’sforagingparties。Theelmsrustled，thesparrowsintheivyjustoutsidethewindowchirpedandflutteredabout，quarrelling，andmakingitupagain；therooks，youngandold，talkedinchorus，andthemerryshoutsoftheboysandthesweetclickofthecricket-batscameupcheerilyfrombelow。