of the lantern on your ladder. I
descended hither. I looked upon you and said: 'Here is a friend.'
Warlock, old fellow, find me some paregoric!"

"I don't know much about babies, Mr. Wrangler," said Billy, slowly and
rather sternly, "for I never had one, and I never was throwed with 'em.
But I think the chances is that you'll kill your'n before morning."

Mr. Wrangler was standing in the shadows where Billy couldn't see him
very well, but his snappy little eyes were shining in a way that Billy
didn't like.

"How old is the baby?" asked Billy.

"I haven't an idea--not one," answered Mr. Wrangler, laughing merrily,
as if his not knowing were a monstrous joke. "But she can walk and
talk."

"And you trying to feed her on milk in a bottle?" exclaimed Billy.
"How'd you like to be fed on iron filings? I rather think they'd make a
good diet for you!" Billy was indignant, and he fetched his hammer down
on a log that lay near with a blow that split it through and through.
Mr. Wrangler stepped back into the shadows still further, and his little
eyes glowed in the darkness like a cat's.

"Ha! ha!" he laughed; "good, very good. But you mustn't make fun of me,
old fellow. It isn't fair, now, really."

"Where is the child, anyhow?"

"Upstairs."

"Here, in this house?"

"Precisely."

"Come on, then; take me to her, and let's see what the matter is."

"That's a good fellow!" cried Mr. Wrangler. "As soon as I saw you I knew
you would prove to be my deliverer. Come."

The forge fire had now gone out, and directing Mr. Wrangler to stand on
top of the ladder, Billy took the lantern, blew out the hanging lamp,
and both ascended from the smithy into the hall of the house. Billy
locked the door behind him and followed Mr. Wrangler upstairs into the
third story. They paused before the hall bedroom and bent forward to
listen. Not a sound broke the night's stillness, and softly Mr. Wrangler
turned the key and opened the door. Billy moved noiselessly ahead and
lit the dull gas.

Upon the bed, with one hand under her cheek and the other one, small and
dotted with dimples, resting lightly on her plump neck, lay as pretty a
child as he had ever seen. Her eyes were closed, for she was sleeping
heavily, as if repose had come to her only when her little frame was
utterly worn out. A great mass of thick, tangled curls clustered on the
pillow about her head. A dark line down her flushed cheek marked the
course of the tears she had been