"Lord!" he exclaimed, "you'll catch your death of cold. What do you want, child?"
"I can't get to sleep," she murmured, blinking her eyes at the sudden glare of the candle.
"Why not?"
He sat there, looking at her, his eyes dazed, half awake.
"I don't know."
"Thinking too much?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Well, count sheep going through a gate. A hundred's the prescribed amount."
She tried to smile because she knew that if she did not, he would think she was unhappy or depressed.
"No, I want you to let me have a book," she said; "I think perhaps if I read—"