you. I can do things, can't I! I did manage Dlorus,
didn't I!"

He was murmuring, "Claire, dear!" when she changed her tone to the echo
of Brooklyn Heights, and hurried on, "You do understand, don't you!
We'll be, uh, good friends."

"Yes." He drove with much speed and silence.

Though they were devouring the dark road, though roadside rocks, caught
by the headlights, seemed to fly up at them, though they went on
forever, chased by a nightmare, Claire snuggled down in security. Her
head drooped against his shoulder. He put his arm about her, his hand
about her waist. She sleepily wondered if she ought to let him. She
heard herself muttering, "Sorry I was so rude when you were so rude,"
and her chilly cheek discovered that the smooth-worn shoulder of his old
blue coat was warm, and she wondered some more about the questions of
waists and hands and---- She was asleep.

She awoke, bewildered to find that dawn was slipping into the air. While
she had slept Milt had taken his arm from about her and fished out a
lap-robe for her. Behind them, Dlorus was slumbering, with her soft
mouth wide open. Claire felt the luxury of the pocket of warmth under
the lap-robe; she comfortably stretched her legs while she pictured Milt
driving on all the night, rigid, tireless, impersonal as the engineer of
a night express.

They came into North Yakima at breakfast time, and found the house of
Mr. Kloh, a neat, bare, drab frame box, with tight small front and back
yards. Dlorus was awake, and when she wasn't yawning, she was enjoying
being hysterical.

"Miss Boltwood," she whined, "you go in and jolly him up."

Milt begged, "Better let me do it, Claire."

They looked squarely at each other. "No, I think I'd better," she
decided.

"Right, Claire, but--I wish I could do more things for you."

"I know!"

He lifted her stiff, cold little body from the car. His hands under her
arms, he held her on the running-board an instant, her eyes level with
his. "Little sister--plucky little sister!" he sighed. He lowered her to
the ground.

Claire knocked at the back door. To it came a bald, tired man, in an
apron wet at the knees. The kitchen floor was soaped, and a
scrubbing-brush rode amid the seas. A rather dirty child clung to his
hand. "Trying to clean up, ma'am. Not very good at it. I hope you ain't
the Cruelty to Children lady. Willy looks mussed, but fact is, I just
can't get time to wash the clothes, but he means a terrible lot to