"Dreaming," said Miggy, "all alone. Goodness, I believe you've got a little fever."
Peter stopped flopping the quilt aimlessly over the lounge and turned, and Miggy laid the back of her hand on Little Child's cheek and beneath her chin. The man watched her anxiously as, since the world began, millions of men have looked down at this mysterious pronouncement of the woman.
"She has?" he said. "She'd ought not to have any milk, then, had she?" he added vaguely. It seemed to me that Miggy must have paused for a moment to like Peter for this wholly youthful, masculine eagerness to show that he knew about such things.
"I'll fix her something to take," said Miggy, capably. "No, dear. The other arm. Straighten elbow."
"I want my shoes an' stockin's on in bed," Little Child observed. She was sitting up, her head drooping, her curls fastened high with a hairpin of Miggy's. "An' I want my shirtie on. An' all my clothes. I won't go bed if you don't."
Miggy laughed. "Bless-your-Heart hasn't got her clothes on," she parried.
"Ain't she got her furs on any more?" demanded Little Child, opening her eyes. "She has, too. She has not, too, took a bath. An' I won't have no bath," she went on. "I'm too old for 'em."
At that she would have Bless-your-Heart in her arms, and there was some argument arising from her intention to take the kitten in one hand all the way through her nightgown sleeve. And by this time sleepyhood tears were near.
"Don't curl your toes under so," said Miggy, struggling with a shoe. "Peter, do go on. You'll never have it done."
Whereat Peter flapped the quilt again; and—