The funny little doll lay asleep, very neat and straight, just in the center of the bed, the covers drawn up like a shawl, one cheek pressed against the pillow, its fair mane streaming out behind, as if it were advancing doggedly against a high wind. There was no creature in the world more helpless, yet it was not alert, not timid, as defenseless little animals are; it slept in utter confidence and security. And that confidence seemed to Ross almost terrible. The tiny creature, breathing so tranquilly, took for granted all possible kindness and protection from him. It had asked him for food; it had offered a kiss. He stood looking down at it with considerable anxiety, yet with the hint of a smile on his lips. “Made yourself at home, didn’t you?” he thought. As he looked, the child gave an impatient flounce, and threw one arm over her head. Ross drew nearer, frowning a little; bent over to examine that arm, that ruffled sleeve. “I don’t believe—” he muttered, and very carefully pulled out the covers from the foot of the bed. His suspicions were confirmed; she was fully dressed, even to her shoes. “Must be darned uncomfortable!” he thought. He hesitated a moment, half afraid to touch her; but at last he cautiously unbuttoned one slipper. She did not stir. He drew off the slipper, then the other one; then the socks, and tucked in the covers again. “Poor little devil!” he said to himself. “Poor little devil! I wonder—” A great yawn interrupted him. “I’ll think about this in the morning,” he thought; “but I’m going to get some sleep now—before anything else happens.” For, coming from the cold of his vigil into this warmth was making him intolerably drowsy. He took off his collar and sat down to remove those objectionable puttees. As this unprincipled intruder had so coolly taken possession of the bed, he would have to sleep on the couch in the sitting room, but that didn’t trouble him. He felt that he could sleep anywhere, and that nothing—absolutely nothing—could keep him awake ten minutes longer. A sound from below startled him. Some one was unlocking the door. In his blind fatigue, he was ready to ignore even that. He didn’t _care_ who came; he wanted to go to sleep. But he remembered the tiny creature in the bed, the creature who expected his protection, and that roused him. Closing the bedroom door, he went to the head of the stairs, and, in a voice husky with sleep, but distinctly threatening, called out: “Who’s that?” “Me,” answered Eddy’s voice. Even before he saw the boy, Ross was aware that there was something amiss with Eddy tonight. His voice was different; he climbed the stairs so slowly. He came into the sitting room, and flung down the bag he was carrying. “I’m all in!” he said. He looked it. His face was haggard and white; his glossy hair was no longer combed back, but flopped untidily over his forehead. There was nothing jaunty about Eddy now. He was weary, grimy, and dispirited.