With subtle stirrings of delight, he watched her eat the bit that he had prepared for her while heating the water. But he was wise enough to know that she must not have much while the extent of her injury was still undetermined. "Are you wet?" he inquired. She nodded. "I haven't been dry since the flood." "I have a room with a real stove in it over the station. I'll build a fire, and you must take off your wet things and go to bed and sleep. If you need anything you can hammer on the floor." "But you--" "I'll be in my office, below. I'm on night duty to-night," said he, tactfully fabricating. "Very well. You're awfully kind." He adjusted the oil-stove, threw a warmed blanket over her feet, and hurried to his room to build the promised fire. When he came back she smiled. "You are good to me! It's stupid of me--my head is so queer--did you say you were--" "The station-agent. My name is Banneker. I'm responsible to the company for your safety and comfort. You're not to worry about it, nor think about it, nor ask any questions." "No," she agreed, and rose. He threw the blanket around her shoulders. At the protective touch she slipped her hand through his arm. So they went out into the night. Mounting the stairs, she stumbled, and for a moment he felt the firm, warm pressure of her body against him. It shook him strangely. "I'm sorry," she murmured. And, a moment later, "Good-night, and thank you." Taking the hand which she held out, he returned her good-night. The door closed. He turned away and was halfway down the flight when a sudden thought recalled him. He tapped on the door. "What is it?" asked the serene music of the voice. "I don't want to bother you, but there's just one thing I forgot. Please give me your name." "What for?" returned the voice doubtfully. "I must report it to the company." "Must you?" The voice seemed to be vaguely troubled. "To-night?" "Don't give a thought to it," he said. "To-morrow will do just as well. I'm sorry to have troubled you." "Good-night," she said again. "Can't remember her own name!" thought Banneker, moved and pitiful. Darkness and quiet were grateful to him as he entered the office. By sense of direction he found his chair, and sank into it. Overhead he could hear the soft sound of her feet moving about the room, his room. Quiet succeeded. Banneker, leagues removed from sleep, or the hope of it, despite his bodily weariness, followed the spirit of wonder through starlit and sunlit realms of dream. The telegraph-receiver clicked. Not his call. But it brought him back to actualities. He lighted his lamp and brought down the letter-file from which had been extracted the description of the wreck for Gardner of the Angelica City Herald.