Manasseh was handing some one into the coach.
"De child—Mas' Richard—if you'll tak' care, miss. He's fas' asleep, prob'ly."
"But I'm not," said Dicky, sitting bolt upright and gathering his rugs about him. "Who is it?"
Manasseh perhaps did not hear. He made no reply, at any rate, but turned the lamp full on Ruth Josselin as she sank back against the cushions on Dicky's right.
"You will find plenty rugs, miss."
He shut the door. Dicky, holding his breath, heard him replace the lamp in its socket, and felt the soft tilt of his great weight as he climbed to the perch behind.
"R—right away!"
There was a tug, and the great coach rolled forward. In the darkness
Dicky caught the sound of a smothered sob.
"Who are you?" he asked. There was no response, and after a moment he added, "I know. You are the girl who put out the fire. I like you."
He was very sleepy. He wondered why she did not answer; but, his childish instinct assuring him that she was a friend, in his somnolence he felt nothing other than trust in her. He nestled close in his rugs and reached out an arm.