She had forgotten to put out her dressing gown, and would not open the closet door, because it creaked. Little Elliston was leisurely over his repast, and she was stiff with cold when at last she stole back into bed. Stefan lay upon his side. She crept close, and in her turn put an arm about him. He was here again, her man, and her child was close at hand, warm and comforted from her breast. Love was all about her, and to-night she was not mocked. Warm again from his touch, she, too, fell at last, with all the dreaming house, asleep. III Stefan stayed at home for several days, sleeping long hours, and seemingly unusually subdued. He would lie reading on the sofa while Mary wrote, and often she turned from her manuscript to find him dozing. They took a few walks together, during which he rarely spoke, but seemed glad of her silent company. Once he called with her on Mrs. Farraday, and actually held an enormous skein of wool for the old lady while she, busily winding, told them anecdotes of her son James, and of her long dead husband. He made no effort to talk, seeming content to sit receptive under the soothing flow of her reminiscences. “Thee is a good boy,” said the little lady, patting his hand kindly as the last shred of wool was wound. “I'm afraid not, ma'am,” said he, dropping quaintly into the address of his childhood. “I'm just a rudderless boat staggering under topheavy sails.” “Thee has a sure harbor, son,” she answered, turning her gentle eyes on Mary. He seemed about to say more, but checked himself. Instead he rose and kissed the little lady's hand. “You are one of those who never lose their harbor, Mrs. Farraday. We're all glad to lower sail in yours.” On the way home Mary linked her arm in his. “You were so sweet to her, dear,” she said. “You're wondering why I can't always be like that, eh, Mary!” She laughed and nodded, pressing his arm. “Well, I can't, worse luck,” he answered, frowning. That evening, while they sat in the dining room over their dessert, the telephone bell rang. Stefan jumped hastily to answer it, as if he felt sure it was for him, and he proved right. “Yes, this is I,” he replied, after his first “hello,” in what seemed to Mary an artificial voice. There was a pause; then she heard him say, “You can?” delightedly, followed by “To-morrow morning at ten? Hurrah! No more wasted time; we shall really get on now.” Another pause, then, “Oh, what does it matter about the store?” impatiently--and at last “Well, to-morrow, anyway. Yes. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked into place, and Stefan came skipping back into the room radiant, his languor of the last few days completely gone. Mary's heart sank like a stone. It was too obvious that he had stayed at home, not to be with her, but merely because his sitter was unobtainable.