Save for the carrying of her down the long flight of stairs, he scarcely dared touch her again but with the rarest and lightest caress of a hand. He had a feeling that, somehow, she was too fragile, too delicate, too perishable for coarse human contact, that a normal caress would shatter her into glistening golden fragments, that she might, perhaps, disappear altogether. Sometimes, she would smile at him, the sweet radiant smile, and brush light fingers fondly over his face. Yet, while he knew her fingers touched him, he could scarcely feel them. It did seem curious to him now and then, during the time they were together, that she never slept or, at least, never seemed to sleep. She did come to rest from time to time, perched on the arm of a chair, perhaps poised gracefully on the couch, her exquisite face in repose, motionless save for an occasional fluttering of her small hands. Watching her, he would fall asleep himself, confident that, when he wakened, she would still be there in the two tiny rooms. It was down in the garden that the very young children who lived in the other buildings on the hillside would come to her. She would rest on the lowest step of his little flight of wooden stairs, and tell them stories--fabulous, wonderful, marvelous stories. It mattered not to the children whether she told her stories in words or in dreamlike thought projections. The children heard them and understood them, and watched her with eyes sometimes gay, sometimes grave, sometimes aglow with sheer enchantment. She made little cakes for them, too, the sugary, crumbly little cakes that, with the sweet, golden drink, seemed to be her only food. She loved them all, and they loved her. It was a very lovely time, a dreamy time, and he was happy. Then, awakening in the midst of a night that was windless and clear and very quiet, he heard the rustle and crackle of flames. He rushed outside to the little apartment landing and saw that the lower buildings were ablaze, that the flames were creeping up towards his own little garden. He ran back into the house to sweep her up to safety. She shook her head, radiating a strange blend of sadness and expectation. It didn’t matter to him whether she spoke aloud or not. “The children,” was what she said. He understood. He raced down into the garden and began to knock on all the doors. How he managed it all, he was never quite sure. From doorway to doorway, from window to window he ran, waking everyone, collecting the children, shepherding them up the hill to the broad avenue and safety. There were fire engines coming now. The flames were flickering hungrily, close to his own little home when he reached it and ran lightly up the stairs, to where she stood poised on the tiny landing. She had taken a scarf of the same glistening, golden silky stuff as her dress, and bound it around her eyes like a blindfold. She stretched out her hands to him, and he prepared to lift her and carry her away to safety.