u wouldn't have spoken back to him down in the square if
you hadn't."

Her uncle turned upon her a slow, cool, silent regard. "Esme, you talk
too much," he said finally. "I'm a little ashamed of you, as a nurse.
Take your place there by the bedside. And you, young man, shut your ears
and eyes and go to sleep."

Hardly had the door closed behind the autocrat of the sick-room, when
his patient turned softly.

"You're crying," he accused.

"I'm not!" The denial was the merest gasp. The long lashes quivered with
tears.

"Yes, you are. He was mean to you."

"He's _never_ mean to me." The words came in a sobbing rush. "But
he--he--stopped loving me just for that minute. And when anybody I love
stops loving me I want to die!"

The boy's brown hands crept timidly to her arm. "I like you awfully," he
said. "And I'll never stop, not even for a minute!"

"Won't you?" Again she was the child coquette. "But we're going away
to-night. Perhaps you won't see me any more."

"Oh, yes, I shall. I'll look for you until I find you."

"I'll hide," she teased.

"That won't matter, little girl." He repeated the form softly and
drowsily. "Little girl; little girl; I'd do anything in the world for
you, little girl, if ever you asked me. Only don't go away while I'm
asleep."

Back of them the door had opened quietly and Professor Certain, who,
with Dr. Elliot, had been a silent spectator of the little drama, now
closed it again, withdrawing, on the further side, with his companion.

"He'll sleep now," said the physician. "That's all he needs. Hello!
What's this?"

In a corner of the sofa was a tiny huddle, outlined vaguely as human,
under a faded shawl. Drawing aside the folds, the quack disclosed a wild
little face, framed in a mass of glowing red hair.

"That Hardscrabbler's young 'un," he said. "She was crying quietly to
herself, in the darkness outside the jail, poor little tyke. So I picked
her up, and" (with a sort of tender awkwardness) "she was glad to come
with me. Seemed to kind of take to me. Kiddies generally do."

"Do they? That's curious."

"I suppose you think so," replied the quack, without rancor.

"What are you going to do with her?"

"I'll see, later. At present I'm going to keep her here with us. She's
only seven, and her mother's dead. Are you staying here to-night?"

"Got to. Missed my connection."

"Then at least you'll let me pay your hotel bill, if you won't take my
money."

"Why, yes: I supp