Whatever is the matter with me? I mutter, and begin to pace homeward.
I am quite glad to find everyone asleep.
I throw off my goloshes in the entrance, steal up to my room and into bed.
But I had a bad night. Tired out, chilled, and wet through, it was long before I ceased coughing and got warm—a continual shiver ran through my bones. I did not get really to sleep till late in the morning, and then my dreams began to torment me in earnest.
I started out of sleep bathed in cold perspiration, sprang out of bed, and went to the window. I look out; the sky is full of stars—the stars look like diamonds set in iron—they roll on so proudly, so calmly, and so high.
There is a tearing wind blowing at the back—the whole house shakes.
I went back to bed, but I slept no more, I only dozed. My dreams were broken, but the little boy was the centre of them all.
Every time I saw him in a new place: there he lies asleep out in the street—there he crouches on some steps in an archway—once, even, devils are playing ball with him—he flies from hand to hand through the air—later on I come across him lying frozen in a rubbish-box.
I held out till morning and then I flew to the soup-kitchen.
He is there!