To the pleasant accompaniment of Clara's needle going through the cloth, the storm without, and the crackling of the fire, Edward Webb fell into one of those dozes when the head, after a few warning shakes, falls like lead to the breast, and the sleeper is helplessly conscious of his plight. He could hear the noises still, but now they mingled with his dreams. The small ones were like little voices speaking to him, and the great ones were the very stuff of which adventures could be made. He was chased by a bear with an open mouth and panting breath--but he knew the wind was answerable for that, and he was not afraid--and then a horde of animals was let loose on him--and that was only Alexander getting the fowls in for the night. He could hear his diligent threats and persuasions, and the clatter of his wooden clogs, sudden, alarmed clackings, and the fluttering of wings. He sat up, blinked, and smiled at Clara in what he thought was a wakeful manner, but before his lips had straightened themselves his head was down again. Something blotted out the glow of the fire on his face, and he knew it was Clara putting on the kettle. He heard the splutter of the drops that clung to it as they touched the flames. There was a murmuring of voices next, and the sound of it was very soothing now that the fire shone on him again. He heard the words, "He didn't go to Janet's," and Clara's quick answering "Hush!" "I'm not asleep," he said, and his voice seemed very small and far away. "But you've been asleep," said Clara. "Have I? I--I beg your pardon. It was rude of me, but the fire and the comfort and--and last night----" "Sleep again if you want to," she said. Her voice had the note women use to tired children, and he understood that he must seem as helpless to her as he sat there, half asleep, in the chair that was so much bigger than himself. "No, oh no; I would rather not. I--I have never thanked you properly, nor have I explained anything about myself. You don't know who I am. I have been taken on trust--entirely on trust. You must believe me grateful. My name----" "Alexander saw that in your books, Mr. Webb. You haven't left them in the wet, Alec?" "No; he returned them, thank you, quite dry again. I must own that I was anxious about them in the night. It's strange how little things like that can worry one. Not that I think it a small thing to care for books, but in the face of--of danger it became trivial." "You were in danger?" "Less than I thought. I could see nothing. I had not been in such a position before, and I am afraid I am a nervous man, more easily alarmed than one should be. Perhaps, with a little more determination----" He stopped and stared into the fire. The dancing flames of it reminded him of Theresa's hair. He went on with difficulty. "I am a traveller. I mean, a commercial traveller." He seemed to expect reproof. Clara encouraged him. "Yes?"