Val choked back the tears, and, without taking her face from the pillow, put out the burned hand gropingly until it touched his knee. “Oh, you--you're good,” she said brokenly. “I used to think you were--horrid, and I'm a--ashamed. You're good, and I--” “Well, I ain't going to be good much longer, if you don't get your head outa that pillow and drink this tea!” His tone was amused and half impatient. But his face--more particularly his eyes--told another story, which perhaps it was as well she did not read. “I'll be dropping the blamed stuff in another minute. My elbow's plumb getting a cramp in it,” he added complainingly. Val made a sound half-way between a sob and a laugh, and sat up. With more haste than the occasion warranted, Kent put the tea and toast on the chair and started for the kitchen. “I was bound you'd eat before I did,” he explained, “and I could stand a cup of coffee myself. And, say! If there's anything more you want, just holler, and I'll come on the long lope.” Val took up the teaspoon, tasted the tea, and then regarded the cup doubtfully. She never drank sugar in her tea. She wondered how much of it he had put in. Her head ached frightfully, and she felt weak and utterly hopeless of ever feeling different. “Everything all right?” came Kent's voice from the kitchen. “Yes,” Val answered hastily, trying hard to speak with some life and cheer in her tone. “It's lovely--all of it.” “Want more tea?” It sounded, out there, as though he was pushing back his chair to rise from the table. “No, no, this is plenty.” Val glanced fearfully toward the kitchen door, lifted the teacup, and heroically drank every drop. It was, she considered, the least that she could do. When he had finished eating he came in, and found her nibbling apathetically at the toast. She looked up at him with an apology in her eyes. “Mr. Burnett, don't think I am always so silly,” she began, leaning back against the piled pillows with a sigh. “I have always thought that I could bear anything. But last night I didn't sleep much. I dreamed about fires, and that Manley was--dead--and I woke up in a perfect horror. It was only ten o'clock. So then I sat up and tried to read, and every five minutes I would go out and look at the sky, to see if there was a glow anywhere. It was foolish, of course. And I didn't sleep at all to-day, either. The minute I would lie down I'd imagine I heard a fire roaring. And then it came. But I was all used up before that, so I wasn't really--I must have fainted, for I don't remember getting into the house--and I do think fainting is the silliest thing! I never did such a thing before,” she finished abjectly. “Oh, well--I guess you had a license to faint if you felt that way,” he comforted awkwardly. “It was the smoke and the heat, I reckon; they were enough to put a crimp in anybody. Did Man say about when he would be back? Because I ought to be moving along; it's quite a walk to the Wishbone.”