He listened abstractedly to the conclusion of the story: it must have been a charming tale, for the boy's cry of regret when it ended was eloquent. But the eavesdropper heard with full appreciation the richness of the low voice and could not wonder at Bob's delight in it. He watched with absorbed eyes the embrace exchanged between the two and, forgetting to be cautious, allowed his shifted foot to crunch the gravel under the window. Quicker than thought the light went out. Burns made for the office door, consumed with eagerness to catch her before she could get away. But when he set foot upon the threshold of his room only the little figure, pulling itself again erect in the bed, met his eyes in the dim light issuing from the office, and otherwise the room was empty. “Nobody heard me cryin' but her,” explained Bob to his questioning guardian. “Cynthia was all goned away and I heard the fiddles and they made me cry. She comed in and told me stories. I love her. But she wented awful quick out that way.” He pointed toward a French window opening like a door upon the lawn. “I wish she didn't go so quick. She looked awful pretty, all white and shiny. She loves me, I think, don't you?” “Of course, old man. That's your particular good luck--eh? Now lie down and go to sleep and tell me all about it in the morning.” “Aren't you going back to the party?” queried Bob anxiously. “Hardly.” Burns glanced humorously down at his attire. “But I'm not going to bed just yet, so shut your eyes. I'll not be far away.” The child obeyed. Exchanging the claw-hammer for his office coat, Burns went out by way of the French window to the rear of the house. An hour afterward Arthur Chester, putting out lights, discovered from a back window a familiar figure at a familiar occupation. But at this hour of the night the sight struck him as so extraordinary that, curiosity afire, he hurriedly let himself out of the side door he had just locked, and crossed the lawn. “In the name of all lunatics, Red, why sawing wood? It can't be ill temper at missing the show?” In the August moonlight the figure straightened itself and laid down the saw. “Go to bed, and don't bother your addle pate about your neighbours. Can't a man cut up a few sticks without your coming to investigate?” “Saw a few more. You haven't got the full dose necessary yet,” advised Chester, his hands in his pockets. “Want me to sit up with you till you work it all off?” “It's beginning to look as if it wouldn't work off,” muttered R. P. Burns. “Must be a worse attack than usual. How long have you been at it?” “Don't know.” “Sawed that whole heap at the side there?” “Suppose so.” “Lost a patient?” “No.” “Blow out a tire?” “No.” “Bad news of any sort?” “No. Go to bed.” “I feel I oughtn't to leave you,” persisted Chester. “Don't you think it might ease your mind to tell me about it?”