"I don't know," he replied, his uplifted eyes devouring all the sweetness of her face. "Would that"-- The very madness of the question forming itself on his lips was his own check. "I don't want to think of it," he said. Then he added, "As I stand here I look up at you. I never looked up at you before." "Nor I down at you," she returned. "You are always so high above me. It seems strange to look down at you." It was all so simple and inconsequent, but every word seemed full of the mystery and emotion of the hour. When he tried afterward to recall what they had said he was bewildered by the slightness of what had been uttered, even though the thrill of it had not yet passed away. He went up the steps and stood beside her. "Yes," he said, speaking as gently as he might have spoken to a child. "You make me feel what a heavy-limbed, clumsy fellow I am. All women make me feel it, but you more than all the rest. You look almost like a child." "But I am not very little," she said; "it is only because I am standing near you." "I always think of you as a small creature," he said. "I used to think, long ago, that some one should care for you." "You were very good, long ago," she answered softly. "And you are very good now to have come to try to help me. Will you come in?" "No," he said, "not now. It might only excite the child to-night if she saw me, and so long as she is quiet I will not run the risk of disturbing her. I will tell you what I am going to do. I am not going to leave you alone. I shall walk up and down beneath your window, and if you need me you will know I am there, and you have only to speak in your lowest voice. If she should be worse, my horse is at the gate, and I can go for the doctor at once." She looked up at him with a kind of wonder. "Do you mean that you intend to stand sentinel all night?" she said. "I have stood sentinel before," was his reply. "I came to stand sentinel. All that I can do is to be ready if I am wanted." "But I cannot let you stay up all night," she began. "You said it had been desolate," he answered. "Won't it be less desolate to know that--that some one is near you?" "Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" she said. "But"-- "Go upstairs," he said, "and promise me that, if she still sleeps, you will lie down and let your nurse watch her." The gentle authority of his manner seemed to impress her curiously. She hesitated as if she scarcely understood it. "I--don't--know," she faltered. "You will be better for it to-morrow," he persisted, "and so will she." "I never did such a thing before," she said, slowly. "I shall be beneath the open window," he said, "and I have the ears of an Indian. I shall know if she stirs." She drew a soft, troubled breath. "Well," she said, "I will--go." And, without another word, she turned away. He stood and watched her as she moved slowly across the wide porch. At the door she stopped and turned toward him.