"She puts eau-de-C'logne on her hanky and dabs my forehead."
"Oh, I can do that," said his father with alacrity.
He found the eau-de-Cologne, and tried his hand at cooling Ruffie's hot head. But either his hands and movements were awkward, or the child was impatient, for he suddenly pushed him from him, and burst into tears.
"I want Steppie! I want Steppie. I feel mis'able!"
Brenda came to the rescue.
"I'll put him to bed, sir. He is tired and hot; he will be all right to-morrow."
Justin hardly slept that night. Ruffie, and Ruffie only, was in his thoughts. He stole into his room in the early morning, and found Brenda bending over the child's bed with an anxious face. Looking up, she made an effort to speak lightly:
"He's been very restless and feverish all night, sir. I hope he may be better now. He's had a nice sleep since six o'clock."
"He's no better at all," said a plaintive little voice from the pillow. "He's very ill indeed, very!"
Justin came and put his hand on the little forehead; the curls were moist with heat, and the anxious father looked at Brenda with scared eyes.