Chapter XXII: A Rescuer

"Such was the life Thou livedst, self-abjuring,
Thine own pains never easing,
Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring,
A life without self-pleasing."--FABER.

Mr. George Britton was a man who seldom ate the bread of idleness, and since his hurried visit to Naples in the early summer his holidays had been few and far between. A cruise of a few days in the _Pilgrim_ before the close of the yachting season had been all he could snatch from his busy life, for he was one of those men who are always going out of their way to help other people, and this cannot be done without an expenditure of time and labor which is often scarcely realized. He was so kind-hearted, so genial a man, that he numbered his friends by hundreds; and his life brought him into contact with such hosts of people that it was often all he could do to remember the names of those he had helped, to say nothing of their faces. He had not, however, altogether forgotten Carlo Donati; more than once he had thought of his pretty niece's ill-fated love story, but having promised to say nothing about it, even to Miss Claremont, he had thought it best to mention Carlo's name as little as possible.

"Yes, I saw him," had been his cautious reply to Clare's questions; "but the Signora Donati is dead, and I fancy there will not be so much communication between the two houses now. I myself liked the fellow very much, but he has some political ideas which annoy my brother."

That was all that had passed with regard to Carlo during the nine months which had since gone by. Clare felt a little sorry and disappointed as she realized how hard it is not to grow apart from old friends whom there is no chance of meeting; but she remembered that it was the way of the world, and that in her wandering life she must try to be content with touching people closely for the time, and then passing off the scene to make room for fresh comers. It crossed her mind once or twice to write to Carlo and send him her sympathy in his trouble about his mother; but such letters are hard to write, and she was so busy that somehow the time never came. She contented herself with inquiring after him in her next letter to Francesca; but Francesca was a shockingly bad correspondent, and when, in two months' time, she replied to the letter she made no mention at all of Carlo.

Mr. Britton's business often took him from Ashborough, where his own works were carried on, to a place in the neighboring county--Mardentown; and one cold, dreary, March afternoon he was pacing the platform of the Mardentown station, waiting for the train that was to take him home. He was not alone. One of his many acquaintances had walked to the station to see him off, and was pouring out some of his own troubles into the shipbuilder's sympathetic ears, when he became conscious that his friend was not listening quite so attentively as usual, and following the direction of his eyes, exclaimed,--

"Oh! you are noticing those Italians. I thought they all went off yesterday: there was quite a crowd of them last night. It's an Operatic Company; that's the Impresario, that sullen-faced man with a black beard; and that's his wife, the _prima donna_ of the party. I suppose the rank and file went off yesterday and left a few of the swells behind."

"Curious," said Mr. Britton, glancing again at the little group; "that fellow is like a man I met at Naples last year! But, after all, foreigners always look more or less alike. He's a handsome fellow; isn't he?"

"The young one, do you mean? Yes, but too small; that's always the way with Italians. He looks bigger on the stage, though. I saw him the other night in _Marta_. What on earth was he called--Sardoni? No; that was the tenor. I forget. One mixes up these outlandish names so. Look, they are sending him to the bookstall to get the local papers; no doubt they want to read the criticisms on their singing."

The talk turned once more upon other matters, and the two friends paced up the platform; then, warned by the big bell that the train was coming into the station, retraced their steps.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Britton, clutching his friend's arm. "Look! A child on the line!"

He rushed down the platform, while at the same instant warning cries, shouts, and a heart-rending shriek in a woman's voice, filled the air. It was all over in a few seconds, and yet there seemed time to take in all the details--the horror of the spectators, the utter helplessness of the child himself, who stood terrified and bewildered, hearing the shouts, seeing the train approaching, and yet too completely paralyzed by fear to move, literally frightened out of his wits. Mr. Britton dashed on and had almost reached the spot when a slight lithe figure darted across the platform in front of him; it was a wonder that they did not knock each other over, but the Italian just swerved to the left in time, leapt down on to the railroad, and ran like the wind to the rescue of the child. There was a moment of intense pain to all the spectators; people held their breath; would the child be saved, or would he and his rescuer be cut down together? The chances seemed about even: not a little depended on the man's strength, and the child might, no doubt, help or hinder his own rescue. The train was slackening speed, yet it seemed to advance with a rapidity that was frightful to watch. It was almost upon the child; the women hid their faces, the men strained their eyes to see what would happen, while the rescuer gave a cry, at the sound of which the child turned, ran a step or two with uplifted hands, and was caught up in the strong arms of the man who had saved it from death. The next instant they were in the six-foot way, and the train passed on and hid them from view.

Mr. Britton drew a deep breath, and, now that the horror of the moment was over, found time to wonder at the cowardice of the spectators. There were several men on the platform, some of them far nearer than he had been at the time the alarm had been given; but no one had rushed instantly to the rescue except himself and the young Italian who had intercepted him.

"Of course," he overheard one man remark to another, "I made sure the people who belonged to him would save the poor little beggar. They say he's the child of Merlino, but if so, Merlino did nothing but shout and tear his hair. Look here! there'll just be time for a brandy-and-soda; I declare it's given me quite a turn."

The speakers ran at full speed to the refreshment-room, and Mr. Britton, with indignation in his heart, turned to see whether the rescuer was in sight again. He was at that moment appearing at the far end of the platform, the child still in his arms. Mr. Britton joined in the eager little crowd which speedily surrounded him; but every one was talking and asking questions, so he held his peace, only looking and listening and feeling strongly drawn to the young Italian, who seemed not to consider himself at all in the light of a hero or to be troubled by the fear that the spectators might do so. An Englishman's first impulse would have been to escape from the eyes of the crowd; the Italian seemed not to consider at all what the onlookers might think of him; he was a little flushed and excited and much taken up with the child, who clung to him and refused to be given to his father.

"The dear little fellow," said Merlino, kissing his son, with tears in his eyes. "He is not hurt? You are sure he is not hurt?"

"Not a bit, only frightened. How in the world did he get down there?"

"He owes his life to you, sir," said the station-master; "I never saw a closer shave!"

"It seemed almost upon us," said Carlo, "relentless as Juggernaut."

But, though he did not under-estimate the danger, it did not appear to make him feel the need of a brandy-and-soda. He turned in the most practical and matter-of-fact way to choose a carriage.

"You get in, Nita," he said, opening the door, "and I'll give you Gigi on your lap."

Mr. Britton, puzzled at the comparative indifference of the mother, took possession of a corner-seat in the same carriage, and felt relieved to see that as she took the child she bent down and covered his face with kisses. In truth, poor Nita in that moment of horror had for the first time realized what the loss of her child would be to her; the agony of seeing him in danger, without being able to stir a finger to save him, had touched into life the motherly love which till now had lain dormant in her heart. But the shock had almost stunned her for the time, and it was not till she held Gigi in her arms that any sign of feeling escaped her. Carlo's face lighted up as he saw how closely she held the little fellow, and both he and Merlino were so much taken up with the child, that it was not till just the last minute that they thought of the luggage.

"Did you see it in, Gomez?" asked Carlo, turning to the Spaniard who had ensconced himself comfortably in the corner opposite Mr. Britton, and beside Mlle. de Caisne.

"I? No, I imagined you had given directions," replied Gomez, with the most irritating air of calm dignity.

Carlo sprang up and put his head out of the window.

"It is gone," he said, "it must be all right."

"Ah, but my bag!" exclaimed Nita. "You really might think of things for me! I must have left it on one of the benches."

The train was on the point of starting, Carlo flung open the door and rushed in search of the lost property, while Merlino, fuming with impatience and anxiety, hurried across the carriage to look from the window.

"_Santo diavolo!_ we are moving!" he exclaimed. "What induced you to be so careless, Nita! Valentino will be left behind--he'll be too late for the opera. There! I told you so," as the train steamed on relentlessly, and a porter closed the door with an authoritative bang, regarding neither the nerves nor the anxieties of the travellers.

"There's not a creature who can take his part to-night, you know there's not, and Marioni won't have rehearsed anything else," stormed Merlino, swearing at his wife, and wholly disregarding the presence of a stranger. The babel that ensued was deafening, Gigi adding not a little to the confusion by bursting into tears, and crying as only children of that age can cry. Mr. Britton began to wish that he had chosen another carriage, yet was obliged to own that these people interested him, and that there was something rather amusing in this glimpse of life behind the scenes. He got out his train-book to see whether there was any other train which would bring the missing singer away from Mardentown in time for the opera, and wondered whether these people were going to Ashborough, or to its near neighbor and rival, Queenbury.

Just at this minute, however, the train stopped at a suburban station, and to the relief and astonishment of all, Carlo suddenly appeared at the door.

"Where on earth did you come from?" exclaimed Merlino.

"The guard's van," said Carlo, taking the vacant place beside Mr. Britton, and evidently perceiving that the atmosphere was disturbed. "I am afraid I gave you all a fright, but there was no chance of getting back to you, only just time to make a dash at the last carriage. I seem fated to run races with the train to-day."

There is nothing more strangely trying than the sudden reaction after great anxiety. Merlino, whose temper was always irritable, was now in the worst possible humor; the very perception that he owed a deep debt of gratitude to his brother-in-law chafed him into greater rudeness and harshness. As for Carlo, when he had put the bag up in the netting, he resigned himself to the inevitable, and bore the storm for the most part in silence, interposing a word or two when he thought it would be any use, but knowing too well that Merlino in this sort of humor must be allowed to have his fling, and that any sort of argument would only make matters worse.

At the first opportunity he took Gigi on his knee, and drawing a little further from Merlino, and nearer to Mr. Britton, began to do what he could to check the loud crying, which was irritating both the father and mother, and which had resisted all Nita's coaxing and Merlino's threatening.

"See, Gigi, you must be quiet," he said, lowering his voice a little.

"I thought you were lost," sobbed the child; "I was so frightened,--and--and I've lost my poor, dear, little soldier!"

When he had recounted this catalogue of woes his tears rained down faster than ever.

"You shall have another. Where did you lose it!"

"It dropped down where the train goes, and I jumped down to look for it, but I couldn't see it nowhere, and then they shouted, and the train came by."

"Well," said Carlo, holding the child closer, "you must never get off the platform again at a station; and as to the little soldier, why, we will get a new one to-morrow at Ashborough. See--dry your eyes, and be a man, and then we will hear about Lionbruno if you like."

"I don't want Lionbruno," said Gigi.

"Well, then, the 'Fair Fiorita,' or the 'Fairy Orlanda,' or shall it be about Buchettino and the Ogre?"

"I think I'd like about Giucca, and, 'eat, my clothes, eat!'" said Gigi.

"Very well," said Carlo. And in English, since that was the language which Gigi liked best to talk, but with all the graphic imagery of an Italian, he told the story of Giucca's two visits to the farm; of how in his poor clothes they drove him away with scorn, but when he came in velvet vest and gay raiment they invited him to dinner; and how in irony he had put the food in his hat and in his pockets, saying, "Eat, my clothes, eat! for you were invited,"--taking care to make a good dinner for himself into the bargain.

"Another," said Gigi, when this story was ended. By this time Merlino and his wife had settled down into their respective corners, Merlino and Gomez had taken up their papers, Nita and Mlle. de Caisne appeared to sleep; of the stranger Carlo had taken scarcely any notice, nor would it have embarrassed him, probably, had he known that Mr. Britton was listening to the stories quite as attentively as was Gigi.

"What shall it be? 'The Shepherd who made the King's daughter laugh?'" asked Carlo.

"No," said Gigi, "I'm so tired; I'd like to have about _Il Cristo_."

"Which story do you want?"

"Something new," said the child. "I'm so tired,--so tired."

"Well, once upon a time," began Carlo, who had no feeling at all as to the mixture of sacred and secular,--"once upon a time, _Il Cristo_ was very tired, he had been going about from town to town you must know, and in the towns he never had a minute's quiet, for, of course, the people wanted to see him, and all day long they were coming and going, and talking and asking his help, so that he had no rest, and not even time to eat."

"That's like you, _zio caro_," put in Gigi.

"And just at this time he was sad as well as tired; for you must know that in that country was a bad king, and this one had taken one of _Il Cristo's_ friends, with whom he used to play when he was a little boy, and had shut him up in a great gloomy old castle by the side of a lake, and when he had kept him in prison a long time he sent his soldiers one evening and ordered the good man's head to be cut off. When _Il Cristo_ heard that his friend was dead you can fancy how sad he was, and how he wanted to be alone for a little while out of the hurry and the rush of the town: and he knew that his followers, too, were tired, for they had been travelling about, and had had hard work to do."

"Were they in his troupe, do you mean?" asked Gigi.

"Not exactly; but they travelled about with him; they were the men who tried hardest to do what he said. And just before this they had been travelling by themselves, which was much harder than travelling with _Il Cristo_."

"Did they travel on stuffy cars like this?"

"No, there were no cars then; most likely they walked, and it was hot like a furnace, and the sun beat down on their heads and the dust came in great clouds, and when they got back to the town they were tired out. Then _Il Cristo_ saw how it was with them, and he said, 'Come away from the town and the hurry and bustle, come right away into the country and have a rest.'

"Then they were glad, and he took them in a ship to a place where he thought they would be quiet--a nice country place."

"I guess it was like Salem," said Gigi, _sotto voce_.

"But when they got there, why, what do you think? the people from the towns had got there before them by a quicker way, and there was a crowd waiting for them which you should have seen!"

"Then the troupe didn't get a holiday after all?"

"Yes, but they did. _Il Cristo_ took the work himself, and they rested, and just heard him talk."

"I guess they liked that better than walking in the sun," said Gigi, thoughtfully. "Why do you know, _zio_, I feel kind o' rested listening to you here in this car; and they had the country and _Il Cristo_ too. Do you think he would have been like that to tired men in our profession?"

"Why, yes, of course," said Carlo, smiling a little at the way the child identified himself with the troupe.

"I wish he'd take us to a country place. You look kind o' tired. I think he might."

"So he will when we really need it."

"Did _Il Cristo_ travel about always like we do? And do you think he got nasty hotels and lumpy beds?"

"Often no bed at all; he said so once, not grumbling you know, he never grumbled."

"We do sometimes, don't we, when they're real bad?"

"Yes; but he made the best of things, and thought of other people before himself; so now, you see, when he was tired and sad he first took care of the followers, and gave them a rest, and then gave the great crowd of people a real good time, and let them come and talk to him, and cured the ones who were sick, and taught them how to be good, and before he sent them home again gave them plenty to eat."

"I guess I'm rather hungry just now," said Gigi. "May I have a brown dog?"

A "brown dog" proved to be a substantial-looking biscuit, and by the time this had been discussed Gigi had grown sleepy. Gomez at the next station changed to a smoking carriage, and Carlo, taking possession of his empty corner, made the child comfortable, and suggested a _siesta_, while Mr. Britton was glad to have an opportunity of studying his features at leisure, and trying to compare them with his recollections of Carlo Donati when he had last met him. He saw that there was a likeness, yet at the same time a great difference, and this Signor Valentino, as he fancied his name to be, had a look of strength about him which Donati had lacked. It was hard to describe the great fascination of the face, the curves of the smooth cheeks and chin were beautiful, the dark moustache so slight that it did not hide the finely chiselled lips; the forehead was specially developed just above the eyebrows, the ear small and set high up in the shapely head, while the rough, dark hair, the high cheek bones, and the deep, brown eyes would alone have stamped him as an Italian. He had pulled his red Phrygian train-cap to a comfortable angle, and had leant back in the corner, with the child still in his arms. Mr. Britton could have wished that he had not chosen to go to sleep, for he would have liked to talk with him, and, perhaps, to say a word or two about his prompt rescue of the little boy, but he was evidently tired, and though from time to time he raised his eyelids and glanced out of the window at the country through which they were passing, he never seemed to notice his English travelling companion, or to have the slightest wish to talk. In fact, Carlo had for the time being forgotten his present surroundings altogether, Gigi's words had returned to him: "I wish he'd take us to a country place." Now there were times when his longing for Italy was the keenest of pains, but there were also times when the mere recollection of his old home made him very happy. It was thus this afternoon; half asleep, half awake, his mind went back to the old familiar scenes; he saw the blue bay of Baja, and the pearly gray mountains of Ischia, and the smiling campagna, and the near hills, with their outlines broken here and there by umbrella pines. Then he wandered down the long, shady walks of the Casa Bella garden, and once more Francesca was with him, and just then the recollection of her was enough to make him happy; there were times when he hardly dared to think of her at all; there were times when memory was anguish, but there were also times when he could smile to himself with the happiness of the mere thought that Francesca lived and that he loved her.

"Is this Ashborough?" asked Nita from the other end of the carriage.

He was startled back into the present by a voice which seemed to him to be Captain Britton's.

"Yes; this is Ashborough, madam."

Could this traveller be the Captain's brother--the "Uncle George"--whose arrival at Naples he so well remembered?

He felt uncertain. It might be only that his half-dreamy recollections of Casa Bella had made him fancy some familiar tone in this Englishman's voice. It was hardly likely that Mr. Britton should happen to get into the same carriage with them. Besides, he had never connected him with the neighborhood of Ashborough; he fancied Merlebank was in another county. And even if this should indeed be Francesca's uncle, would it be very desirable to introduce himself under the circumstances?

While he wondered what to do, the train had steamed into the station, and his doubts were solved and his opportunity lost at the same moment. Some one on the platform recognized the gray-bearded Englishman, and threw open the carriage-door.

"Ha, Britton! are you here? I'm just off to Queenbury, and will take your vacant place."

"How are you?" said the Englishman, with a hearty grip of the hand. "Any of my people here, do you know?"

"The carriage wasn't up just now; hindered, very likely; the town is in an awful confusion--the races on Monday, you know."

Carlo heard no more. He had to carry Gigi to the nearest fly, and the flies seemed scarce and mostly engaged. When at length he had secured one, and made over Gigi to his mother, he had to rush off and see to the luggage, and there was no time to think any more of his own plans.

In the meantime, however, Mr. Britton had not lost sight of him. He felt strangely curious as to the movements of these operatic people, and being obliged to wait till his own carriage came up, he strolled to and fro, glancing now out of the station at the driving rain and the chilly March night, now at his late companions. As usual, it appeared that "Signor Valentino" did the work, the others all crowded into the one available fly, and sat impatiently waiting while he hunted up truant trunks and portmanteaux.

"What an age you have been!" was the greeting he received. "You can't get in here! Perhaps there'll be another fly by this time. Do you think the man can take all the luggage outside?"

"He'll have to," was the reply. "There's nothing else to be had nor any chance of getting anything. It seems it is the race week."

"Can't you change places with him, Signor Gomez?" said Nita, for once in her life prompted to think for her brother. "His cough is so bad he oughtn't to be out on such a night."

Gomez made a dignified excuse, and suggested that if they delayed any longer it would be impossible to dine before the opera.

"And by-the-bye, Val, my dear fellow, just stop in passing at the theatre," exclaimed Merlino; "you'll notice it on your way to the hotel, and might just see that all is right there."

"Very well. Is my umbrella handy?"

They gave it to him and drove off, while Carlo began to wrap up his throat in a huge muffler, looking distastefully enough at the dark, muddy street, and the torrents of rain. He was just about to set off on his wet walk when, on turning to ask the nearest way to the hotel, he suddenly confronted Mr. Britton.

"I am expecting my carriage every minute," said the Englishman, in his kindly voice, which, but for the absence of the slight tone of patronage, would have been exactly like Captain Britton's. "I hope you'll allow me to drive you to your hotel."

"You are most kind," said Carlo. "I should indeed be very grateful; but perhaps I ought to tell you----"

He was interrupted. Mr. Britton, glancing round to see if the carriage had come, chanced to notice a huge advertisement of Signor Merlino's Operatic Company, and his eye was instantly caught by a name in large black letters--SIGNOR CARLO DONATI.

"I must beg a thousand pardons, Signor Donati, for not recognizing you before!" he exclaimed, shaking him heartily by the hand. "I thought I knew your face on the Mardentown platform, but I heard them call you by the name of Valentino, and, moreover, had not the slightest idea that you were in England or that you had changed your profession."

"The change was only just decided on when you left Naples, sir," said Carlo, his color rising a little. "I hope you have good accounts from Casa Bella?"

He tried to subdue the eagerness of his tone, but it was some time since he had heard from Enrico, and the thought of hearing of Francesca in so much more direct a way made every pulse in him beat feverishly.

"Very good, indeed," said Mr. Britton. "They all seem well. Francesca is coming to stay with us in the summer, I believe. It was an old promise, and I think the change will be good for her. Here is the carriage at last. Now I am quite at your disposal. Shall we call first at the theatre, and then shall I drop you at your hotel? Or are you, too, in a hurry to get your dinner?"

He had kindly made a rather lengthy speech, because he saw how much the Italian was moved by his reference to Francesca. Carlo asked to stop at the theatre, and Mr. Britton, who understood now that his brother's objection to the marriage had had to do with the stage and not at all with political matters, determined to show that he, at any rate, did not share in his prejudice.

"I suppose Valentino is just a nickname; it misled me altogether," he said. "But for that I think I should have spoken to you, and asked, at any rate, whether you were related to Signor Donati, the Neapolitan advocate."

Carlo smiled. Not for many months had he had such a pleasure as that friendly talk with Francesca's uncle.

"It is the name of what is supposed to be my best part--Valentino in _Faust_," he explained.

"I see. Well, I must manage to hear you in it. It is twenty years and more since I heard an opera."

"Then you have never heard Faust?" exclaimed Carlo, almost incredulously. "We are to give it to-night; may I really have the pleasure of getting you an order?"

"You are very good; I should like nothing better," said Mr. Britton, fully understanding that since his lady-love could not be present to hear him the next best thing was to have her old uncle, who might possibly tell her something about it. He felt convinced that such a thought had flashed through the young man's mind, and liked him the better for it, because, after all, it was so human, so precisely what he himself would have felt at four-and-twenty.

"You have a very bad cough!" he exclaimed, quite agreeing with the prima donna that Donati had no business to be out on such a night.

"Oh, it is only chronic!" said Carlo, lightly, as if that made it an affair of no account. "Is this the theatre? Will you then come in with me, and choose your place for to-night?"

The ticket chosen, Carlo and Mr. Britton made their way through long and not particularly clean passages to the region behind the scenes. Here all seemed confusion; carpenters and scene-shifters hurried to and fro; there was a babel of talking, shouting, hammering; and Carlo's arrival was evidently hailed as a relief by the man in authority, who came quickly up to him to explain some difficulty that had arisen, and to ask whether Merlino would soon be at the theatre. Mr. Britton, meantime, was learning that scenery and stage illusions were disenchanting enough when nearly viewed, and in his own mind was wondering whether anything could possibly teach him to walk respectably on the sloping stage. It was evident that Carlo was a practical man, for his suggestions were received as orders, and something like method began to be traceable in what had at first seemed the wildest chaos.

"I must not keep you waiting any longer," he said, after a few minutes, coming up to Mr. Britton; "thank you for all your kindness. They seem to have got behindhand here, and I must stay and help them a little."

"Will you not come and dine with me at the club?" said Mr. Britton; "it is close by."

"You are very good," said Carlo, looking at his watch, "but, to tell the truth, it is too late for me to dine now. I shouldn't be able to sing if I did."

"I hope you don't intend to starve yourself," said the Englishman. "Surely that can't be good for the voice."

"No," said Carlo, laughing; "I shall send out for some oysters, or perhaps take a raw egg or two." Then, seeing Mr. Britton's look of commiseration, he laughed. "You know we make up for it at supper. I shall be as hungry as a hunter by the time the opera is over."

"Then I cannot take you to the hotel?"

"I think not, thank you; I must be here for the present. When all is ready I dare say I shall run and see that Gigi is none the worse for his fright, but they tell me it is close by. You will remember me to Miss Claremont."

"She will be delighted to hear you are in England; you must come over to see us at Merlebank; we are not much more than two miles from the town. Good-bye then for the present, and I hope you'll find the little boy has suffered no ill effects."

It was not till nearly eight o'clock that Carlo could snatch a minute to run and see after Gigi; hurrying along the wet and cheerless street he made his way to the hotel, and on the doorstep came suddenly upon Sardoni, who had gone on to Ashborough on the previous night with the rest of the troupe.

"So here you are at last," he exclaimed, "doing the dirty work as usual, I see. How are you, Val? I declare you look better."

In truth the meeting with Mr. Britton and the pleasure of having rescued Gigi had acted as a sort of stimulus, and Carlo, spite of a very tiring day, felt better than he had done for some months past.

"I'm as strong as a horse," he said, laughing, "should come in neck and neck with the winner of the Mountshire Handicap on Monday. Where is Gigi?"

"Sitting on the stairs when I last saw him; the place is packed, and I'm afraid they won't have given you much of a room; Gomez snapped up the only decent one."

Carlo waited for no more, but ran upstairs till he came upon the disconsolate figure of the little boy.

"Have you had something to eat, _mio caro_?" he asked taking the child in his arms and carrying him on.

"Yes, but there's no bed for me," said Gigi, piteously.

"How's that? one was ordered. Where have they put my portmanteau?"

"Up at the top," said Gigi, mournfully, "in No. 62; but there's no bed for me."

Carlo rang to inquire, only to be told that, the house being quite full for the race week, no more beds were available; and the only room, No. 62, proved to be a servant's room vacated just for the occasion, a dismal little place under the roof, smelling strongly of stale ham sandwiches. In the corner was one narrow truckle-bed.

"Never mind, Gigi," said Carlo, passing his arm round the child's neck, and waking a smile on the dismal little face; "you've slept in the overland trunk before now. Let us see if you have grown too long for it; you know it was rather fun last time. Yes?"

Gigi measured himself by the trunk, to the infinite amusement of the chambermaid, who volunteered to find him a pair of sheets.

"But as to blankets, sir, they're every blessed one of them in use," she added.

"Never mind, one of mine doubled will do for him," said Carlo, ruthlessly stripping the truckle-bed. "Now, Gigi, unlock the trunk for me, and we'll turn the things out on the floor and make room for you."

Gigi thought this fine fun; and what with pillows and blanket from the truckle-bed, and clean sheets which the chambermaid brought hot from the fire, the improvised crib was comfortable enough. But to Carlo it somehow suggested a coffin, and the thought of the danger the child had been in made him shudder as he bent down to kiss him.

"I do love you so," said Gigi, clinging to him with all his might. And Carlo hurried back to the theatre with the words ringing in his ears, and the feeling of the little child's arms still about his neck.