He felt uplifted. Little Anne was close to infinity; he and Anne were blessed in their closeness to each other. It was a profound, a restful conviction. There would flow from it, Kit realized, intensely vital action, but now it sufficed to rest in it, conscious feeling absorbed. In a frame of mind in which he did not recognize himself Kit passed the night. It was not unlike the vigil of a youth beside his arms on the eve of knighthood. As the east began to redden Kit dozed, his arms on the windowsill pillowing his head. He roused and shook himself as boys and dogs shake themselves after a nap, and went downstairs, winding his forgotten watch as he went, setting it by the tall clock on the landing. He was surprised to see that it was after seven. He went out on the steps, intending to go to the Berkley house to ask for news. He shrank from ringing the sharp telephone bell in that house which he pictured as filled with the silence of oppressive grief. For now, though the rising sun usually brings hope after the night’s despair, Kit felt sure that little Anne was dead. As he came out he saw on the bottom step of his aunt’s house a figure. It sat huddled, arms folded, head pillowed, knees drawn up, bowed forward in a heap that for a moment prevented recognition. Then Kit saw that it was young Peter Berkley. “Peter!” he cried, and went down to lay his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Peter jumped and sat up, rubbing his eyes, bewildered. “Must have dropped off,” he apologized. “I’m not used to being awake all night, and this was the third one. I was awake pretty much all of the two before this one. I thought I’d stop and see you, but I hated to ring, didn’t hear any one stirring in the house. When I sat down I guess I went right off.” “Have you been here long?” asked Kit, not daring to ask the question that was uppermost in his mind. “Don’t know what time it is now,” said Peter. “I got here about ten minutes to seven, I suppose. I went around to serve Mass at six. That’s the first one. I had to go.” “Did you?” Kit’s voice was as softly pitying as Peter’s mother’s could have been. “Is that what you do when----” “It’s what you want to do. You can’t thank God yourself; you’re not big enough,” said Peter, simply. “What I came to tell you, Kit, is that Anne’s pulled through.” “Living? Going to live?” Kit shouted. Peter nodded. “The crisis was last night about one. She got through it like the little sport she is. The doctor stayed and helped all he could, but he said it was her heart won out. He says her heart’s fine this morning, so it’s sure she’ll get well with proper care. Think she won’t get it? The doctor doesn’t know how true what he said was. Say, don’t you think it was little Anne’s heart? She’s such a good kid and tries so hard to do what she’s told.” Kit nodded. He found it hard to speak, but he patted Peter’s shoulder steadily, as though something would go wrong if he stopped.