and more swiftly, with
a pleasant feeling of restfulness, till a voice said loudly:

"Vince, Vince! What is it, boy? Wake up!"

Vince not only woke up, but sat up, staring at his father and mother,
who were standing in their dressing-gowns on either side of his bed.

"He must have something coming on," said Mrs Burnet anxiously.

"Coming on!" said the Doctor, feeling the boy's temples and then his
wrist; next, transferring his hand to where he could feel the pulsation
of the heart, "Nightmare!" he cried.

"What's the matter?" said Vince confusedly. "Fire?"

"Any one would have thought so, and that you were being scorched, making
all that groaning and outcry. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," said Vince, whose dreaming was all hidden now by a mental
haze. "Is anybody ill, then?"

"I'm afraid you are, my dear," said Mrs Burnet anxiously; and she laid
her cool hand upon her son's forehead. "His head is very hot and wet,
dear," she added to the Doctor.

"Yes, I know," he said gruffly. "Here, Vince!"

"Yes, father."

"What did you have for your supper?"

"Oh! only a couple of slices of bread and butter, with a little jam on,"
said Mrs Burnet hastily. "I cut it for him myself."

"Nothing else?" said the Doctor.

"No, dear."

"Yes, I did, mother," said Vince, whose head was growing clearer now.
"I was so hungry I went into the larder and got that piece of cold
pudding."

"Wurrrh!" roared the Doctor, uttering a peculiar growling sound, and, to
the astonishment of mother and son, he caught up the pillow and gave
Vince a bang with it which knocked him back on the bolster. "Cold
pudding!" he cried. "Here! try a shoe-sole to-morrow night, and see if
you can digest that. Come to bed, my dear. Look here, Vince: tell Mr
Deane to give you some lessons in natural history, and then you'll learn
that you are not an ostrich, but a boy."

The next minute Vince was in the dark, but not before Mrs Burnet had
managed to bend down and kiss him, accompanying it with one of those
tender good-nights which he never forgot to the very last.

But Vince felt hot and angry with what had passed.

"I wish father hadn't hit me," he muttered. "He never did before. I
don't like it; and he seemed so cross. I wonder whether he did feel
angry."

Vince lay for some minutes puzzling his not quite clear brain as to
whether his father was angry or pretending. There was the dull murmur
of voices from the next room, a