"Bacon," he said on a note of satisfaction—"bacon."
"No, no; you'd better have some milk. It will warm you. Milk first, bacon afterwards, perhaps."
She spoke soothingly, entirely at her ease, doing the work that came most readily to her. He blinked and straightened himself before he took the cup. The woman seemed tall, and splendid, and compelling.
"I'm afraid—I'm afraid I had almost fallen asleep. The warmth——"
"Drink this," she ordered.
"Thank you." He shivered. "Forgive my troubling you. If I may rest for a little while——-"
She patted his shoulder. "Yes; you shall go to sleep. Push the chair nearer to the fire, Alec. Jim"—she turned to her husband, who stood in the doorway—"when I've warmed the bed we must get him there, or he'll be ill." She looked down smilingly at the half-conscious occupant of the chair. "He's just a bundle of cold and fright," she said.
Bidden to hang up the damp coat of the visitor, who now lay snug in bed, Alexander obeyed with so much vigour that two small books fell from the pockets to the floor.
"His name's Edward Webb," he announced. "And he reads poetry. Keats, this one, and 'Paradise Lost.'" He turned the pages and stood reading.
"Are those your books, Alexander?" said his father. The voice was irritable, and the dark face moody. Expectant, almost hopeful of a retort, he watched his son.