The careless little smile on her lips, she stepped upon the crazy porch and tried the door. Obstinate in mood it resisted her onslaught with almost personal violence. But she braced her back upon its gray stubbornness, and giving a vigorous push, burst into the room. Dim, inhospitable, alien, its opaque shadows menaced vaguely. Still smiling, Anne ventured boldly forward. Then, as her eyes fell upon the hearth, hesitated, for from the embers rose a nebulous tube of smoke. Its faint, acrid tang rode the stale air challengingly. Anne darted a keen glance about her, focusing upon the extreme corner of the room where a denser blackness prevailed, which as she approached resolved itself into a couch and a mass of tossed blankets from which emerged a head; a tumbled, lolling head, which drooped towards the floor as if in pursuit of its own heavy, trailing hand. Pathetic, remote behind closed lids, it carried to Anne a summons both tragic and impelling. She drew nearer and peered down into the pallid features. It was the face of a dissipated young god, glistening with a pallor of unhealth, beautiful in its decadence, with the pagan beauty of a Praxiteles. A wave of pity and excitement surged over her. A boy, ill and alone; a boy with the face of a fallen Lucifer! She leaned over and placed her hand upon the pale forehead. It was cold and moist beneath a tangle of tumbled curls. She shivered slightly at the contact. Ephemeral as was her touch, the leaden lids rose beneath it, and she found herself gazing down into a pair of weary, indifferent young eyes. She backed away hastily. The boy intercepted her recoil with a harsh laugh. Sitting up, he clasped his head, and gazed at her from under long and pallid fingers. "Did you think I was dead?" he said with a mocking air. "And what would you have done if I had been?" He shot her a look of impish hostility. Anne assumed an air of indifference. "There would have been a lot of red tape, I suppose," she said curtly over her shoulder. She turned and walked slowly toward the door. Arms clasped about his knees, he looked after her with dawning interest. "Where are you going?" he said brusquely. "You can't leave now in this rain." He looked up at the roof against which rushing waters beat a thunderous tattoo. Scrambling to his feet, he started towards her. She met the haggard young eyes with composure. "When I came in here, I thought the place was deserted," she said simply, "and then, when I saw you----" "You thought I was dead!" he interposed with a repetition of the short, dry laugh. "No such luck!" He checked himself. "Seriously, you won't be so foolish as to go out again until the rain stops, will you? Just because you find me offensive? I'll make up the fire, and you must dry yourself."