"Stop or I'll shoot!" said a voice. Simultaneously the light flashed on. Emma McChesney found herself blinking at a determined young man who was steadily pointing a short, chubby, businesslike looking steel affair in her direction. Then the hand that held the steel dropped.
"What is this, anyway?" demanded Jock rather crossly. "A George Cohan comedy?"
Emma McChesney leaned against the foot of the bed rather weakly.
"What did you think—"
"What would you think if you heard some one come sneaking along the hall, stopping, listening, sneaking to your door, and then opening it, and listening again, and sneaking in? What would you think it was? How did I know you were going around making social calls at two o'clock in the morning!"
Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. She leaned over the footboard and laughed hysterically, her head in her arms. Jock stared a moment in offended disapproval. Then the humor of it caught him, and he buried his head in his pillow to stifle unseemly shrieks. His legs kicked spasmodically beneath the bedclothes.
As suddenly as she had begun to laugh Mrs. McChesney became very sober.
"Stop it, Jock! Tell me, why weren't you sleeping?"
"I don't know," replied Jock, as suddenly solemn. "I—sort of—began to think, and I couldn't sleep."
"What were you thinking of?"