The soft rustling ceased, and Bootles closed his eyes again, with a devout prayer that they would, in response to this appeal, take themselves off. But presently it began again, accompanied by a sound which made his heart jump almost into his mouth, and beat so furiously as to be simply suffocating. It stopped—was repeated—“_The_—DEVIL,” muttered Bootles. But it was not the devil at all—more like a little angel, in truth; for after a moment’s irresolution he sprang from his chair and faced the horror behind him. It really was a horror to him, for there, sitting up among the pillows of the cot, with the clothes pushed back, was a baby, a baby whose short golden curls shone in the fire-light—a little child dressed in white, with a pair of wide-open, wondering eyes, as bright as stars and as blue as sapphires. Bootles stood in dismay staring at it. “Where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, did _you_ come from?” he asked aloud, keeping at a safe distance lest it should suddenly start howling. But the little stranger did not howl; on the contrary, as its bewildered eyes fell upon Bootles’s resplendent figure, his gold-laced scarlet jacket and gold-embroidered waistcoat of white velvet, his gold-laced overalls and jingling spurs, it stretched out its little arms and cried, “Boo, boo, boo—!” Bootles took a step back in his surprise, and his headache vanished as if by magic. “By—Jove!” he exclaimed. “Boo—boo—boo!” crowed the usurper of the cot, cheerily. Bootles went a step nearer. “Why, you’re a queer little beggar,” he remarked. “Where did you come from, eh?” The “queer little beggar” suddenly changed its tone, and started another system of crowing more triumphant and cheery than the first. “Chucka—chucka—chucka—chuck!” it went. Bootles began to laugh. “Can’t talk, hey? Well, what do you want?” as it struggled fiercely to rise, and stretched out its small arms more impatiently than before. “Want to be lifted up, hey? Oh, but dash it,” scratching his head perplexedly, “I can’t lift you up, you know; it’s out of the question—impossible. By Jove, I might let you drop and smash you!” “Chucka—chucka—chucka! Boo—oo—oo!” gobbled the baby, as if it were the best joke in the world. Bootles positively roared. “You don’t mind? Well, come along, then,” approaching very gingerly, and wondering where he should begin to get hold of it, so to speak. The baby soon settled that question, holding out its arms towards his neck. Then somehow he gathered it up and carried it in doubt and trepidation to the big chair by the fire, where the creature sat contentedly upon his knee, the curly golden head resting against his scarlet jacket, the soft fingers of one baby hand tight twined round one of his, the other picking and wandering aimlessly about the scrolls and curves of the gold embroidery on his waistcoat.