The voice seemed to materialize out of the gloom into something big and high and unexpectedly close at hand that rightly should have startled Miss Theodosia but failed to do so. Afterward, in the house again, among her irons, she was startled.
"I was going by and saw her—you can tell a sleepwalker by the way one walks. Glides. Now, when I lift her, gently support her head—that's it. Forward, march!"
"This way," Miss Theodosia directed in a whisper, though he was already moving this way. Shadow Man that he was, he stepped earthily, with thuds of his feet on the grass. Miss Theodosia's footsteps were soft echoes. So they came to the little House of Flaggs.
"There's a light in that inside room, and I can see a bed. I'll lay her down, and you can go in afterward—and—er—smooth her out."
"Yes—yes, I'll wait out here," whispered Miss Theodosia with a curious solemnity in her face. Rome, nor Paris, nor Anywhere had offered adventure like this—not like this. Miss Theodosia had an odd feeling that this, too, was a dream—and a John. Would they all wake up together?
"Sound as a nut—never knew what hit her! But she wants straightening.
New work for me; I'm not used to putting kiddies to bed."
"Oh, I'm not either!" breathed Miss Theodosia, "but I might straighten one. I don't suppose you—you kissed her thumbs? Of course not!" She laughed softly. "But I shall."
Now it was the Shadow Man's turn to laugh with a funny, explosive little effect as though he were not used to muffling his laughs,—as if this playing Shadow Man were a new rôle.
"Why thumbs?" he whispered. "Why not lips, say, or eyes? I thought women kissed kiddies' eyes. Hope I haven't made a mistake—" as if he had some secret desire for women to kiss the eyes of little children. "If you don't mind kissing 'em when you go in there—"
"I shall kiss her thumbs," Miss Theodosia said firmly. "They were burned at the stake for me. I know how burned thumbs feel."