"Yes." She passed her hands slowly over her eyes. "But that all seems so vague and far away." "Vague and far away," he repeated; and then: "And are you afraid of me now?" "Not any longer," she said, and she added frankly, "now that you're going away." He moved toward the door. He seemed particularly weary to-night, as though he could hardly move about at all. "The household here is in your keeping," he said in a tired whisper. "If there is any light and warmth in it, it will be your light and warmth; if it is happy, it will be because you've made it so. Happy things may come to you in life, but you must never go seeking them any more. It is your turn to make the fire." "Won't you sit down a moment longer?" Luella ventured. "There isn't time." His voice was so low now that she could scarcely hear the words. "But remember that whatever suffering comes to you, I can always help you--if it is something that can be helped. I promise nothing." He opened the door. She must find out now what she most wanted to know, before it was too late. "What have you done to me?" she cried. "Why have I no sorrow left for Chuck--for anything at all? Tell me; I almost see, yet I can't see. Before you go--tell me who you are!" "Who am I?--" His worn suit paused in the doorway. His round, pale face seemed to dissolve into two faces, a dozen faces, a score, each one different yet the same--sad, happy, tragic, indifferent, resigned--until threescore Doctor Moons were ranged like an infinite series of reflections, like months stretching into the vista of the past. "Who am I?" he repeated; "I am five years." The door closed. At six o'clock Charles Hemple came home, and as usual Luella met him in the hall. Except that now his hair was dead white, his long illness of two years had left no mark upon him. Luella herself was more noticeably changed--she was a little stouter, and there were those lines around her eyes that had come when Chuck died one evening back in 1921. But she was still lovely, and there was a mature kindness about her face at twenty-eight, as if suffering had touched her only reluctantly and then hurried away. "Ede and her husband are coming to dinner," she said. "I've got theatre tickets, but if you're tired, I don't care whether we go or not." "I'd like to go." She looked at him. "You wouldn't." "I really would." "We'll see how you feel after dinner." He put his arm around her waist. Together they walked into the nursery where the two children were waiting up to say good night. HOT AND COLD BLOOD