Jane sat up and stared round her. Already the outline of her dresser was faint and shadowy. In half an hour black night would settle down and she had not even a candle or a box of matches. She crawled out, panicky, and began in the darkness to don her kimono and slippers. As she opened the door and stepped into the hall the convalescent typhoid heard her and set up his usual cry. "Hey," he called, "whoever that is come in and fix the lights. They're broken. And I want some bread and milk. I can't sleep on an empty stomach!" Jane padded on past the room where love lay cold and dead, down the corridor with its alarming echoes. The house seemed very quiet. At a corner unexpectedly she collided with some one going hastily. The result was a crash and a deluge of hot water. Jane got a drop on her bare ankle, and as soon as she could breathe she screamed. "Why don't you look where you're going?" demanded the red-haired person angrily. "I've been an hour boiling that water, and now it has to be done over again!" "It would do a lot of good to look!" retorted Jane. "But if you wish I'll carry a bell!" "The thing for you to do," said the red-haired person severely, "is to go back to bed like a good girl and stay there until morning. The light is cut off." "Really!" said Jane. "I thought it had just gone out for a walk. I daresay I may have a box of matches at least?" He fumbled in his pockets without success. "Not a match, of course!" he said disgustedly. "Was any one ever in such an infernal mess? Can't you get back to your room without matches?" "I shan't go back at all unless I have some sort of light," maintained Jane. "I'm--horribly frightened!" The break in her voice caught his attention and he put his hand out gently and took her arm. "Now listen," he said. "You've been brave and fine all day, and don't stop it now. I--I've got all I can manage. Mary O'Shaughnessy is----" He stopped. "I'm going to be very busy," he said with half a groan. "I surely do wish you were forty for the next few hours. But you'll go back and stay in your room, won't you?" He patted her arm, which Jane particularly hated generally. But Jane had altered considerably since morning. "Then you cannot go to the telephone?" "Not to-night." "And Higgins?" "Higgins has gone," he said. "He slipped off an hour ago. We'll have to manage to-night somehow. Now will you be a good child?" "I'll go back," she promised meekly. "I'm sorry I'm not forty." He turned her round and started her in the right direction with a little push. But she had gone only a step or two when she heard him coming after her quickly. "Where are you?" "Here," quavered Jane, not quite sure of him or of herself perhaps. But when he stopped beside her he didn't try to touch her arm again. He only said: "I wouldn't have you forty for anything in the world. I want you to be just as you are, very beautiful and young."