William stirred at the voices, and turning his head tried to lick the little bare feet resting on his back.
"Dearest, I really think you should go back to bed."
"Very well," said Meg meekly. "I'll go now."
"He," Jan continued, "would be very angry if he thought you were making curtains in the middle of the night."
"He," Meg retorted, "is absurd—and dear beyond all human belief."
"You see, he left you in my charge ... what will he say if—when he comes back—he finds a haggard Meg with a face like a threepenny-bit that has seen much service?"
"All right, I'm coming."
When Meg got back to her room, she went and leaned over little Fay sleeping in the cot beside her bed. Rosy and beautiful, warm and fragrant, the healthy baby brought comfort to Meg's stricken heart.
Perhaps—who knows—the tramp of that silent army sounded in little Fay's ears, for she stretched out her dimpled arms and caught Meg round the neck.
"Deah Med!" she sighed, and was still.