He looked at the fire.  And then he looked harder.  It was not a fire at all, but a young girl, all bright and golden, sitting with her head drowsily bent forward on her knees and her arms wrapped close about her legs.  But as he watched she slowly lifted her bright head, and looked quietly about the room.  Then she gradually and beautilully rose and stepped out of the fireplace onto the floor.  Slowly she moved across to the mother’s couch and stood still as though looking down at her.  Slowly she bent and drew the bed-clothes higher about her shoulders, and kissed the flower-petal hair curled back on the pillow.

She moved then to Ivra’s couch, still slowly and very beautifully, and Eric could see her smile at the little one huddled there, half on her face, one arm thrown up over her head.  Gently the fire-girl rolled her into a relaxed position on her side, tucked in the flung arm, and kissed the closed eyelids.

Then she stood a minute, looking away, Eric did not know where.  But his heart began to ache with wonder and longing.  Would she come to him too—­or was he only a stranger?

He lay still, watching her from his dark corner.  At last she stopped looking away, and came across the floor to him.  She brought all the brightness of the room with her, and her feet made no sound on the boards.  When she stood above him he shut his eyes, though he wanted very much to look up into her face.  She bent down and her hands smoothed his covers, warmed his pillow and lay still for a minute like sunlight on his cheek.

When he opened his eyes again, she had gone back to the fireplace, all her brightness with her, and was resting there, a drowsy, golden girl, her head bent forward on her knees and her slim arms wrapped close about her legs.

Eric lay and watched her for many sleepy minutes while her light fell dimmer and dimmer, lower and lower.  When it was just a tiny flicker he dropped to sleep.

CHAPTER IV

THE GOSSIP

He slept long and deeply, for when he woke he felt rested.  But he did not open his eyes.  “It must be time for Mrs. Freg to shake me,” he was thinking.  “Until she does I’ll just stay as I am and pretend it wasn’t a dream, but real.”  For although he remembered very well all that had happened to him yesterday, he could not believe it was true.

So he lay still in his snug bed, wondering that Mrs. Freg’s boys had left him so much of the bed-clothes.  “How fine to have a little time to pretend a dream!” he said to himself.  But Mrs. Freg did not come and did not come, until at last he opened his eyes, just in wonderment.  “It must be six o’clock!”

When he saw where he was, and that the dream was true, his heart almost stood still for joy.  He was indeed far away in the woods, safe and snug and warm in this bright house, and Mrs. Freg could never reach him here.  And he would not go to the canning factory that day, nor the next, nor the next, nor ever again.  The new mother had said so.  His happiness brought him up in bed wide awake, and then he got out.  He had not learned to bound out yet, but that came.