"No, 't is not," the cook answered. "Go back to yer bed. He 'll not come t'-night now. 'T is too late."
"Is it?" she asked, in the simple tones of a child. "Is it too late, Mary?"
"It is that. Go to bed, gurl. Yeh 're tired out."
"Oh?" she said softly. "It 's too late." And she disappeared in the darkness.
Beatty caught a quick breath. "W-what is it? What 's the matter with her?"
The cook answered wearily: "I 've told yeh, sor, but yeh 'll not understan'."
"But there 's something wrong with her," he said huskily. "That 's not her natural voice."
"Let be, boy," she replied. "Her trouble 's come to her. We can do naught fer her now." She added, more gently: "We're like a cat with our sores, sor. 'T is best to let us go off be oursilves an' lick thim.… She 'll be quiet now.… It must 've been hot downtown this day."
"Yes," he sighed. "I thought—I thought perhaps the heat had affected her. The papers are full of deaths and prostrations."
She nodded and nodded. After a silence, she said: "No doubt. The heat, too. Are y' a Noo Yorker born?"
He cleared his throat to answer: "No, A Canadian. An exile, like yourself."
"Aye," she said. "This is a great town fer young men. Yeh get yer chanct here."
He did not reply, and she did not speak again. For
