The tone of the story-teller's voice had grown softer and softer; had dropped lower and lower; then stopped altogether.

The silence caused the woman, whose pent-up emotion had been finding vent in silent tears, to uplift her head. Her very soul was gladdened by the picture upon which her eyes rested.

The man had drawn the coverlet up so that it shielded the wearied little eyes from the light. Her child was asleep! Peacefully sleeping in the arms of Prince Charlie.

She had been kneeling with her face buried in her hands, on the same side of the bed as he sat. Now she had but to bend to reach his disengaged hand. The burning, feverish lips were pressed to it, with all the heartfelt fervour inspired by a mother's gratitude: surely the very strongest inspiration in the world.

Ere she took her lips away he felt, drop—drop—drop. Three tears on his hand! Tears from the eyes of the woman to whom, in her grief, his heart opened. Despite the fact that he had thought it closed against her for ever.

His heart was very full just then. A veritable agony of love was in his eyes as he looked at her. Passionate words were framed in his thoughts; rose to his lips and were choked back.

Except for that strained expression in his eyes, his face was calm as stone; the pallor likened it to marble. But the woman's head was bent; his suffering was unseen by her.

It pained him—her gratitude. He had done so little to deserve it. Indeed would have been a brute had he done less. No thanks were due to him; acceptance of them made him feel himself in a false position. But he could do nothing to restrain her—for fear of waking Gracie.

She moved a little away, glancing again at the sleeping child with a deep sigh of thankfulness. A slight movement of his head, a look in his eyes, beckoned her to come closer.

She understood. Noiselessly walked behind him; stood so, leaning over the bed rail. Her head was close to his, as he asked in an undertone:

"The medicine?"

"She should take it in two hours."

"She must."

He said that in a whisper, with a meaning glance at the child's flushed face.

"Will it be wise to awaken her?"

"Distinctly; in case of fever. Besides, at this stage, the more she sleeps the more easily she will go to sleep again. Poor little mite! This is not half so comfortable a position for her as if she were lying down, but I can't move her till the slumber feeling gets a tighter hold on her. I shall awaken her at medicine time, and she will go to sleep quickly enough by then in any position. Drink?"

"Milk. There is some."

She pointed to a jug standing on a table near by. His eyes followed the direction of her hand; he nodded.

"Good. Now, lie you down on the sofa. Try and get some sleep yourself."

She drew back in astonishment at his suggestion. Shook her head; then expostulated:

"I could not!"

"You must!"

"I cou—"

"You don't want to annoy—to seriously annoy me, do you?"

The voice was very earnest; that voice which she found so wonderfully deep and thrilling. Even in its whisper there was, for her, all the power of great music; even in the lightest words he spoke.

She brushed a tear from her eyes. Once more impulsively bent and kissed the hand which was resting on the rail. He whispered:

"Let me ask you to lie down—to oblige me. Will you do that? You have not slept for long. I, as you know, am a veritable owl; a complete night-bird. My consumption of midnight oil is a standing joke. It is easier for me to keep awake than to go to sleep—oblige me."

All the boy in him had departed for the time. Yet there was no effort, no conscious assumption of manly dignity. On the contrary, it suited him well. Seemed merely another phase of his character.

Her answer was in as earnest a tone as he himself used; strangely earnest considering the smallness of his request; she said:

"I would do anything—anything in the world you asked me."

"Then lie down. Remember that the greatest pleasure you can give me will be to see you asleep. That is not very complimentary to you, is it?"

That was said in an endeavour to make her smile. He was sorry he had spoken so when he saw how the lips curved. Sad smiles are not pretty things; he continued hastily:

"And you may sleep in peace. Your fears may be at rest; Gracie is doing well. Short as has been her sleep, so far, I feel the temperature is lower—her breathing to be more regular. Now go."

Dutifully, obediently, she went. There are some men who must be obeyed without question. Masters was of those—when he chose. That was not often. He was of so kindly a nature that he never cared to press his authority: unless occasion rendered that course absolutely necessary.

The sofa was on the other side of the room. He furtively watched her for a long time, as she lay there with her eyes wide open. Watched her unavailing fight against sleep; smiled when at last she succumbed, when Nature conquered. She went to sleep: a sound sleep bred of that previous wakefulness and anxiety.

Time passed. The hands of the clock on the mantel crept round slowly minute by minute, twice. Then, very quietly, very gently, he woke the child. She was so sleepy and drowsy that his heart smote him; it seemed almost cruel to rouse her.

The eyes opened widely for a minute in surprise at seeing him there. Then she remembered; the lids half closed again. She stretched her hand a little higher up his shoulder and said:

"You're still here, Prince Charlie."

"Yes, darling. I am going to stop all night. We must not speak loudly; Mamma is asleep; and she is so tired."

"So am I, Prince Charlie. Peepy and thirsty. Will you give me some milk?"

"After this medicine, dear.... There. Now the milk.... My! What a thirsty little girlie. What? More!... We shall have to buy another cow!"

He smoothed her pillow, laid her comfortably down and stroked her brow. Was glad to note how fast the feverishness was leaving her; she was distinctly cooler. In less than a minute she was peacefully asleep again.

A good nurse, was Masters. Many trained to the calling might have taken hints from him. Some men are born that way.

He had in his composition just the right proportions of firmness, kindness, and that constant thoughtfulness for others which go to make up the ideal attendant.

Moreover, he had a way, through some subtle influence of his personality, of making his will felt without irritating by its actual expression. He rarely raised opposition; rather it fell away before him.

Gracie was not the only being who succumbed to this man's latent force of character. Most people with whom he came in contact felt its power, wholly unaware of it as he was himself.

Yet another satisfied glance at the sleeping figure, then he made preparations for the night. Quietly drawing off his boots, walked across the room to the fireplace. Converted his fingers into tongs, and so from the coalbox noiselessly replenished the fire. Then he sat down to watch; to watch and think.

For hours he sat there without stirring. Made no movement lest he should disturb the sleepers. He was over-anxious perhaps—afraid to make the smallest sound.

His reflections were not altogether in the groove they had followed hitherto. He had felt certainty where now he felt doubt. There were, too, throbbing moments when he doubted not the woman, but himself.

But ever the truth, the bitter truth, rose up before him, like a great black veil. In it was no loophole for charity. Besides, love asks for love—not for compassion. Could she know what was in his mind, she would scornfully refuse his pity. He knew that; had no doubt of it, low as he deemed her to have fallen.

She would reject so poor a substitute for love, and she would be right. There would be no hesitation; he knew that instinctively. He had once seen the blaze of anger in those now closed eyes; the memory remained with him. Yet that substitute was all he had to offer her; all he felt for her now—so he told himself.

Was it? Was it in very truth? He asked himself the question, and his throbbing heart made answer. But his lips formed another reply, although unspoken. They were tightly shut, firmly set. The tenseness was the reply itself.

Yet—he could not help it—he wondered whether it could be possible. That the woman, from whose face he scarcely took his eyes, was what he thought her. Whose emotion and love for her child had been so real and earnest, whose gratitude had shown itself in her humility to him. To him! He who had so grossly insulted her that night on the seat.

Even in sleep, tell-tale sleep, when that watchful control which we may keep on our waking expression is no longer possible, even then the lines of her face were all of purity and gentleness.

The lips were closed in sweet soft curves; a faint flush was on her pale cheeks; her white brow was wholly serene. It was surely as innocent a face as the little one's to which—he saw it now for the first time—it bore so striking a likeness. Was it possible that a woman could sin, or be sinned against, and remain unsullied?

When the time for medicine came round again, he gently touched the child with intent to waken her. Then drew away his hand. He felt that she was so much cooler, the flush had almost gone from her face, that he determined not to disturb her. To let her awaken of her own accord.... So the night passed.

During all those long hours, Masters might have applied wisdom to a grasping of the situation. But it has been well said that wisdom does not pour knowledge from above as the clouds let down rain. It is to be delved for patiently and with hard toil, at the cost of flinty hands and, mayhap, of skinned knuckles.