running, and he whispered, "Quick, then! Bring me a rug."
"Good-night," he repeated, and a pleasant voice called through an
upper window, "Why good-night?" He did not answer until the child
was wrapped up in his arms.
"It is time that she learnt to sleep out," he cried. "If you want
me, we're out on the hillside, where I used to be."
The voice protested, saying this and that.
"Stewart's in the house," said the man, "and it cannot matter,
and I am going anyway."
"Stephen, I wish you wouldn't. I wish you wouldn't take her.
Promise you won't say foolish things to her. Don't--I wish you'd
come up for a minute--"
The child, whose face was laid against his, felt the muscles in