"It's barely November," he pointed out. "We had that all out last year. Closed windows only during blizzards and high winds." "I know, dear, but summer's just over, and our blood's still thin. Besides, we put on the electric blankets today." Since, theoretically, expensive electric blankets were supposed to _add_ to one's security against chilling, the argument detracted not a whit from Baxter's convictions, but he was too tired to pursue the annual debate about chilling-versus-fresh air requirements. He inhaled the dense mist of aromatic, warm, humid boudoir essences and fell into exhausted slumber. His dream was a recurrent one wherein he wandered barefoot through an echoing chamber. He was a Lilliputian, searching the interior of Rolanda's skull, a great, empty, reverberating dome. He had no notion for what he was searching, but all he found were the roots of her yellow hair sticking down through the pate. The edge of his fatigue had just nicely worn off to that treacherous point, where to be awakened would result in hours of wakeful tossing, when the whimper came. It came again, and Baxter swam up from the depths until he was half awake. "Sleep, baby!" he urged. "Close your eyes and go to sleep, my darling." His lips didn't move, and he was only dreamily aware of the foolish hope that his good luck of last night might be repeated. It worked. Annie quieted, went back to sleep and stayed asleep until morning. * * * * * A week later Rolanda remarked about it at the breakfast table. It did, indeed, seem that Annie had reformed her nocturnal habits; but Baxter knew better. Each night, now, at the first whimper he sent his silent, mental message winging through the plaster, lath and pink wallpaper to the pink baby under the pink blanket in the pink crib. Annie was still waking at two a.m. each night, but she was still complying with his soothing thought-appeals. That night, the whimper found him sleepless again. Starkly awake, with eyes wide open, it seemed ridiculous to repeat such a foolish, wishful-thinking process, and he refrained from doing so. Telepathy was nonsense! The whimper grew in volume, welled up into a full-throated wail that prickled the short hairs of his neck. "Oh, no! Annie, for heaven's sake!" Without thinking further on it he slipped into his silent pleading. "Go to sleep, baby. Go to sleep, my darling." Annie had too much momentum to capitulate easily. He pleaded and cajoled, and finally he mentally hummed three stanzas of "Rock-a-Bye Baby." The wail trembled and fell off into a few reluctant sobs. Annie was comforted, reassured. Annie slept. * * * * *