Zaidee listened. “Papa and mamma talking down-stairs, oh, so-o-o-o late!” Zaidee gave a little wriggle of delight; her eyes gleamed winkingly. “Redge doesn’t know, but I do! Who is that with papa and mamma, Cousin Dosia? Oh, I know! it’s the lovely man—that’s what Redge and me calls him. I wish I was down-stairs, don’t you? Cousin Dosia, don’t you wish you were down-stairs?” “Yes,” said Dosia again. “Hush! some one is coming; you’ll get sent to bed again.” This time it was Lois. Her abstracted gaze seemed to take in the two on the upper stairway as a matter of course. [Illustration: _Sat desolately on the top step_] “Oh, it’s you, is it?” she said. “I thought I heard some one talking.” She rested on the post below, looking up. “I came to see if you’d take Zaidee in with you for the rest of the night, Dosia. I want to give Justin’s room to Mr. Girard.” “Is he going to stay?” asked Dosia. “Yes. It’s too late for him to disturb the Snows, and he’s been traveling all day; he’s dreadfully tired. He wanted to sleep on the sofa down-stairs, but I wouldn’t let him.” She was carrying Zaidee, already half asleep again, in her arms as she talked, depositing her in Dosia’s bed, while Dosia followed her. “Did he sell the island?” asked Dosia. Lois shook her head. “No. They may really sell it next week, but not now— The woman who was surely going to buy it—she’s withdrawn; she’s bought a steam-yacht instead. But Mr. Girard says he has hopes of another purchaser next week. Only that will be too late to save the business. Of course he doesn’t know that, and Justin will not tell him—he says Mr. Girard cannot help. Oh, Dosia, when Justin came in from that ride he looked so well, and now—” She covered her face with her hands, before recovering herself. “It’s time you were both asleep.” “Can’t I help you?” asked Dosia; but Lois only answered indifferently, “No, it’s not necessary,” and went around making arrangements, while Dosia, with Zaidee nestling close to her, slept at last. It was late the next morning before Girard came down. Justin had had breakfast, and gone; Lois was up-stairs with the children, and Dosia, who had been tidying up the place, was arranging some flowers in the vases when he strode in. There was no vestige of that sick-hearted, imploring maiden of the night before; no desolate frenzy was to be seen in this trim, neat, capable little figure, clad in blue gingham, that made her throat very white, her hair very fair. Something in Girard’s glance seemed to show an instant pleasure that she should be the one to greet him, but he bent anxiously over the watch he held in his hand. “Will you tell me what time it is? My watch has stopped.” “It’s half-past nine,” said Dosia.