Gracie was sitting up in bed, propped up by the pillows. Masters gave a sigh of relief: they were not too late. Death might be knocking at the door, but had not yet been admitted.

The child looked expectantly at the door as her mother opened it. Her cheeks and eyes were bright with the fever in them. Then the expectant look mellowed into a smile. She had seen the man behind!

"I knew you would come, Prince Charlie!"

"Of course you did! Knew I should come when I knew you wanted me. I shouldn't have been much of a Prince Charlie if I hadn't, should I?"

Masters sat on the bed with his back against the headrail. Put his arm round the little one and snuggled her to him. She nestled up to him with a croon—a little grunting ejaculation of content—as he tucked the clothes closely round her. Did not seem to desire to talk, was just simply happy in having him there. He inquired:

"Comfy?"

"Awful."

He was grieved to feel how she had fallen away. How, in a few days, she had grown so thin. For the mother's and child's sakes, he made no outward manifestation of his grief: expressed no surprise. He felt that his mission just then was to brighten, not to shed gloom. Spoke jestingly:

"Now that Prince Charlie is here, what have you to say to his royal highness? Nothing?"

"I dreamed a dream, Prince Charlie!"

"Oh!"

"Yes. That you were married to me; that you were my husband."

"Did you? Now that was something like a dream! What sort of husband did I make?"

"I don't know. You see the dream didn't last long enough."

"That was a bad job! Because if you had liked me in the dream, you might have married me later on."

"I thought that." She spoke quite gravely. "But you see I know I should like you as a husband."

"I am glad you think that."

"Who asks? Do you say to me 'marry me,' or do I say to you 'marry me'?"

"M'well, that depends. I really don't think it would matter much; which ever way you like best."

"Of course, you would marry me if I asked you? What do I have to do—kneel down, like the Prince in Cinderella?"

"That is the really proper way, of course. But if you have a very pretty pinafore on it would be a pity, wouldn't it? Then I think you could manage without kneeling."

"I see. I could put on my black dress, though. It's got some sticky stuff I spilt down the front."

"But I am afraid before this marriage takes place you will have to grow a little older."

"Of course!"

She essayed a laugh. The mother pricked up her ears: it was the first time the sound of laughter had come from those lips for many an hour; the child continued:

"You don't think I am so silly as to think I can be married in short frocks, do you? What an old goose you are! Of course, I mean when I am bigger and wear a train."

"I see. Do you think the black dress will grow too?"

"N—no. I forgot that—that's my fault. But you promised."

"Why certainly. I most cheerfully promise that I will marry you, if you ask me when you are a big girl."

"A real, real promise?"

"A most really, real, realiest of real promises. If you ask me when you are a big girl, to marry you, I promise you I will."

She sighed contentedly. Nestling to him, closed her eyelids as she said:

"People go away for honey-dews, don't they?"

He smiled. Gathered that she had confused names by reading the label on his tobacco packet. She had seen him fill his pouch, and clamoured for the silver paper to make impressions of coins on. To her huge satisfaction had more than once induced him to pick up her coinage in the belief that they were real.

"Yes," he answered. "It is usual for married persons to go away. We must consider where we will spend our honeymoon. You have been to the Hippodrome, haven't you?"

Her eyes opened; sparkled at the recollection. The dustmen were banished for a moment as she answered:

"Twice! That's where I saw Cinderella!"

"That wouldn't be altogether a bad place for a honeymoon, would it? Then there's the Zoo—how about that?"

"Lovely! You are a very dear old Prince Charlie. I think if I couldn't marry you I wouldn't marry anybody. I am sorry for all the other little girls that can't marry you. You know lots of little girls, don't you?"

"Yes. But then you are my real sweetheart, you know."

"I'm glad. 'Cos you can't marry more than one, can you? I hope the other little girls won't cry, all the same."

"I don't think they will. Some of them are bigger than you; have given up crying."

"Oh, big little girls cry! But they don't make a noise, and they don't like you to see. I've seen mamma cry!"

Prince Charlie was silent; he too had seen the mother's tears. The child prattled on:

"We shall have to go all the way to Heaven when we are married, shan't we?"

He wondered what childish idea could prompt such a question; asked:

"What makes you think that, darling?"

"When we went to church last Sunday—no, it was the Sunday before; the man in the white dress said so."

"Did he?"

"Yes; he did really. I heard him quite plainly. He said 'marriages are made in heaven.' Is heaven very, very beautiful, Prince Charlie?"

"Much more beautiful than we can even think it is, darling."

"All the good little girls go there, don't they?"

"Yes. Most certainly."

"When doctors come to people they are ill, aren't they? And they die sometimes when they are ill, don't they?... If I die now shall I go right straight to heaven, Prince Charlie?"

The woman kneeling by the bedside turned away her head. The trembling hand found her throat and helped to stifle the sob bursting there. Life and death were fighting for conquest. Contemplation of the battle is ever sad; sadder because the watchers can do nought to turn the tide of victory. Time was arbiter; yet the little one was speaking as if the Grim One's victory were assured.

There was a little quaver, just a little huskiness, in Masters' voice, as he said:

"Don't talk of dying, Gracie."

"Oh, I am not going to die yet."

The child's attempt at a laugh was pitiful, by reason of the lack of mirth in it; she continued:

"I shouldn't be able to marry you till you got to heaven if I did, should I? How full it must be up there of little boys and girls, Prince Charlie."

"Yes, darling."

He acquiesced aloud; truthfully. Then added, under his breath:

"Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."

"God is very fond of children, isn't He?"

"Very fond."

Again there came to him a suggestion; to himself he quoted:

"Suffer little children to come unto Me."

"You are very fond of little children too, aren't you?" She nestled, if possible, a little closer. "Mamma says she knows you are."

"Mamma is right, darling. Very fond."

"But you don't love any of them better than you do me, do you?"

Her blue eyes were fixed on his face as she looked up, eager to hear his reply; quite truthfully he answered:

"Not one. Not one."

"I forgot." A little sigh of content. "You told me that before. You haven't any children of your real own, have you?"

"No dear."

"I'm glad of that."

She sighed in the same way again. Pillowed her head more deeply on his arm; inquired suddenly:

"God has a Child of his real own, hasn't He?"

"Yes, love."

"A little boy?"

"Was a little boy; yes, darling."

"I know. Because we keep His birthday; same as we keep mine. Only mine comes with the roses, His with the holly. You know—it is on Christmas day."

"Yes; we all of us keep it, dear."

"Prince Charlie?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you know any stories about God's Little Boy?"

"Yes, dear; some."

"Tell me—a nice story about Him—will you? No giants or bears in it, because I feel so sleepy—and I am too tired.... So tired.... I would like to go to sleep—just like this—in your arms."

He bent his head. Kissed the flushed, sweet little face he was cradling in the hollow of his arm. Then told the story of the birth of God's Little Boy; in a manner adapted to the little ears listening to it.

Her sleepiness grew; the blue eyes opened each time more reluctantly. As the little body lost its stiffness, he blue-pencilled the story down to the stage where God's Little Boy was lying asleep in the manger. And the watching angels—even as the narrator was—were continually saying:

"Hus-s-h!"

The fact that he repeated this part of the story again and again to bring in the soothing "Hus-s-sh" passed unnoticed by Gracie. Her eyes had closed; she was asleep. The doctor had said sleep would be her salvation.

The crucial time—midnight—and she slept!