"Were you out all night?" asked Alexander, kindling. "All night--yes. Among the rocks. I thought I should fall off. I was afraid." "Did you--see things?" "Mist. Figures in the mist. And a sheep cried, and stones fell sometimes, and there was a noise of water. If I could get warm----" Alexander put out a steadying hand. "Will you come in?" he said. "My mother'll see to you." The man suffered himself to be led out of the sunshine through a place which seemed long and dark and cavernous, and so into a room where a fire glowed and crackled, and an open door and window let in the light. "Mother!" said Alexander. A woman looked up swiftly from the frying-pan. "I didn't hear you for the bacon frizzling," she said. "Oh! who is it, Alec? Here, put him into the chair. Quick!" "He's been out all night," he says. "He looks like it." She touched his hands. "He's perished. Take off his boots, and tell your father. I'll warm some milk. Poor soul!" The little man, with Alexander at his feet, had sunk back against the red cushions of the chair. The strain of his expression had relaxed, and now he smiled. "Bacon," he said on a note of satisfaction--"bacon." "No, no; you'd better have some milk. It will warm you. Milk first, bacon afterwards, perhaps." She spoke soothingly, entirely at her ease, doing the work that came most readily to her. He blinked and straightened himself before he took the cup. The woman seemed tall, and splendid, and compelling. "I'm afraid--I'm afraid I had almost fallen asleep. The warmth----" "Drink this," she ordered. "Thank you." He shivered. "Forgive my troubling you. If I may rest for a little while-----" She patted his shoulder. "Yes; you shall go to sleep. Push the chair nearer to the fire, Alec. Jim"--she turned to her husband, who stood in the doorway--"when I've warmed the bed we must get him there, or he'll be ill." She looked down smilingly at the half-conscious occupant of the chair. "He's just a bundle of cold and fright," she said. Bidden to hang up the damp coat of the visitor, who now lay snug in bed, Alexander obeyed with so much vigour that two small books fell from the pockets to the floor. "His name's Edward Webb," he announced. "And he reads poetry. Keats, this one, and 'Paradise Lost.'" He turned the pages and stood reading. "Are those your books, Alexander?" said his father. The voice was irritable, and the dark face moody. Expectant, almost hopeful of a retort, he watched his son. "They're his." "Then put them down." "But I think he'd like me to dry them. Where was the man lying to get so wet?" "Give them here. I'll see to them. What did you say his name was?" "Edward Webb. I think I'll just put them in the sun. They're good books, and he's read a lot in them." "Does it say where he comes from?" "I wouldn't think of looking," said Alexander. "They're his property. But I'll dry them."