"I didn't," Floyd said hotly. "And I don't know why." "Hah!" Jacob Pincus snorted.

"I don't understand, Mr. Pincus. What's wrong?" Floyd heard his voice trembling. "He wasn't going home. You're not well enough yet to run the shop." "Somebody else is coming. Listen, leave me alone."

Floyd stared at him. The old man had turned to face the blue glow of the television tube. But he wasn't really watching it. The rugged old face worked painfully. A tear ran down the deep crease beside the mouth. Abruptly, a fat, hairy hand waved.

"He left some books for you. Books you loaned him. There."

They were piled in a corner of the sofa.

"Take them and get out of here."

"Mr. Pincus, why are you sore at me?"

"Go!" the old man roared. "Get out of my house!"

Floyd picked up the books and got out. Stunned, he stumbled toward home, knowing nowhere else to go. Along the way, he blankly noticed a slip of paper sticking out of one of the books. He pulled it out. On it were three words: I'm sorry, Floyd.

When he opened the front door, his mother called to him from the livingroom. He set the books down and walked in, too dazed to be afraid.

"Where have you been, dear? Mr. Ringgold phoned he'd sent you home feeling sick. I called Dr. Friend right away. We've been waiting."

"Come here, son, let's have a look at you." The doctor smelled of peppermint, a little round man. He stood up when Floyd didn't move. "Don't like his color," he murmured to Floyd's mother. "Here, take off the jacket." He bent over his shapeless black leather bag, rattling his hand inside it. When he straightened, he had his stethoscope. "What's wrong, Floyd? Didn't you hear me?"

Floyd had heard, vaguely, as if from someplace far off. But his ears weren't important at the moment. His eyes were. He was staring at the room. It was festooned with leaves, autumn leaves from the riverside woods. They had been fastened up over the mirror above the mantel, tucked behind pictures, grouped in the immense vases beside the fireplace. Over the doorway into the hall, the doorway into the diningroom, over the front bay window. Red leaves, branches and branches of marvelous red leaves.

"Floyd?"

He answered the doctor this time. But he was looking at his mother. "I'm not sick. I was, but now I'm all right, doctor."

From the strained, gray face of his mother, he looked to the leaves again, then back.

"Aren't they lovely?" she said. "I went for a long walk yesterday, up the river, miles and miles. September is so beautiful in the woods. You weren't at church, so I thought, I'll just take a walk, as I used to do, as a girl."

"And then you went to see Mr. Pincus," Floyd said. "He's sick. How come you didn't take him any leaves?"

His mother's face went red. She stood. "Doctor-?"

"Now, Floyd," the pudgy man began.

But Floyd turned on his heel and walked out. He heard them conferring in loud whispers, heard them come out of the parlor and start up the stairs after him. He locked himself in the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub full force. He paid no attention when they knocked and rattled the knob and called him. He calmly undressed and sank gratefully into the water. Suddenly,

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