She went upstairs slowly, as if thinking, and once in her room, seated herself at her desk and commenced a note. Before she had written a page she tore the paper in two and began anew. Twice she repeated this proceeding; then rose in evident irritation, and, walking to her fire, stood looking down into the flame. “I’ll think out what I had better do when I’m not so tired,” she finally remarked, as she rang for her maid. But once in bed, her thoughts, or the previous strain, kept her long hours awake; and when at last she dropped into unconsciousness her slumber was made miserable by dreams mixing in utter confusion operating-room and dinner, guests and microbes—dreams in which she was alternately striving to explain something to Dr. Armstrong, who could not be brought to understand, or to conceal something he was determined to discover. Finally she found herself stretched on the dinner-table, the doctor, knife in hand, standing over her, with the avowed intention of opening her heart to learn some secret, and it was her helpless protests and struggles which brought consciousness to her—to discover that she had slept far into the morning. With the one thought of a visit to the hospital during the permitted hours, she made a hasty toilet, followed by an equally speedy breakfast, and was actually on her way downstairs when she recalled her promise of a gift. A glance at her watch told her that there was not time to go to the shops, and hurrying back to her room, she glanced around for something among the knick-knacks scattered about. Finding nothing that she could conceive of as bringing pleasure to the waif, she took from a drawer of her desk a photograph of herself, and descended to the carriage. She had reason to be thankful for her recollection, as, once her greetings, and questions to the nurse about the patient’s condition were made, Swot demanded, “Wheer’s dat present dat youse promised me?” “I did not have time this morning to get something especially for you,” she explained, handing him the portrait, “so for want of anything better, I’ve brought you my picture.” The urchin took the gift and looked at both sides. “Wotinell’s dat good for?” he demanded contemptuously. “I thought—hoped it might please you, as showing you that I had forgiven—that I liked you.” “Ah, git on de floor an’ look at youseself,” disgustedly remarked Swot. “Dat talk don’t cut no ice wid me. W’y didn’t youse ask wot Ise wants?” “And what would you like?” “Will youse guv me a pistol?” “Why, what would you do with it?” “I’d trow a scare into de big newsies w’en dey starts to chase me off de good beats.” “Really, Swot, I don’t think I ought to give you anything so dangerous. You are very young to—” “Ah! Youse a goil, an’ deyse born frightened. Bet youse life, if youse ask de doc, he won’t tink it nuttin’ to be scared of.” “He isn’t here this morning,” remarked Constance, for some reason looking fixedly at the glove she was removing as she spoke.