Hickory held the boy close, fingers running through his hair, smoothening
 the rumpled locks of red fire back from his eyes.  The boy was barely a ten of
 years in age; his jade green eyes contrasted pleasantly with the color of his hair; a
 scattering of brown freckles dotted his cheeks.  The boy was dressed in garb not
 dissimilar to his own: a simple tunic that was perhaps a size or two too long, and
 dark green breeches with ragged ends that reached only midcalf.
	It was a curious thing to hold and comfort a child.  He had been doing so
 since his son and daughter-in-law - the boy's parents - had died years ago, but
 nonetheless he felt an odd sensation in him when he did it.  
	"Grampa?"
	Hickory, realizing he had closed them, opened his eyes and looked down
 at the boy.  He managed a tired smile, meeting the dark green gaze with his ochre
 pair.  "Aye, James?"
	"I'm sorry," the young boy whispered, his face ashen.  "I didn't mean to
 leave the candle lit, I truly didn't."
	The old man chuckled sadly and hugged his grandson close again.  "It's
 alright, lad," he murmured gently.  "T'was only the barn.  Spirits be praised that
 the horses were to pasture still and not inside."