He fell into a fit of abstraction,--a habit not uncommon with learned men,--wondering why life should be so different with different people; why he should be in that warm, handsome room, with its soft rich hangings and carpet, with its beautiful furniture of carved wood, its pictures, and the rare china scattered here and there among the grim array of skeletons which were his delight. He wondered why he should take his tea out of costly and valuable Oriental china, sugar and cream out of antique silver, while other poor souls had no tea at all, and nothing to take it out of even if they had. He wondered why he should have a lamp under his teapot that was a very marvel of art transparencies; why he should have every luxury, and this poor creature should be dying in the street amid the wind and the rain. It was all very unequal. It was very odd, the professor argued, leaning his back against the tall, warm stove; it was very odd indeed. He began to feel that, grand as the study of osteology undoubtedly is, he ought not to permit it to become so engrossing as to blind him to the study of the greater philosophies of life. His reverie was, however, broken by the abrupt reentrance of Koosje, who this time was a trifle less breathless than she had been before. “We have got her into the kitchen, professor,” she announced. “She is a child--a mere baby, and so pretty! She has opened her eyes and spoken.” “Give her some soup and wine--hot,” said the professor, without stirring. “But won’t you come?” she asked. The professor hesitated; he hated attending in cases of illness, though he was a properly qualified doctor and in an emergency would lay his prejudice aside. “Or shall I run across for the good Dr. Smit?” Koosje asked. “He would come in a minute, only it is _such_ a night!” At that moment a fiercer gust than before rattled at the casements, and the professor laid aside his scruples. He followed his housekeeper down the chilly, marble-flagged passage into the kitchen, where he never went for months together--a cosey enough, pleasant place, with a deep valance hanging from the mantel-shelf, with many great copper pans, bright and shining as new gold, and furniture all scrubbed to the whiteness of snow. In an arm-chair before the opened stove sat the rescued girl--a slight, golden-haired thing, with wistful blue eyes and a frightened air. Every moment she caught her breath in a half-hysterical sob, while violent shivers shook her from head to foot. The professor went and looked at her over his spectacles, as if she had been some curious specimen of his favourite study; but at the same time he kept at a respectful distance from her. “Give her some soup and wine,” he said, at length, putting his hands under the tails of his long dressing-gown of flowered cashmere. “Some soup and wine--hot; and put her to bed.” “Is she then to remain for the night?” Koosje asked, a little surprised.