“A—­well a—­well, dearie, you’ll never be young but once.  Make ye the most of it,” she said, a dream in her faded eyes.

Out of the heart of the girl a full-throated laugh welled.  “I’ll do just that, Auntie.  Then I’ll grow some day into a nice old lady like you.”  Joyce recurred to business in a matter-of-fact voice.  “How many more of the ham sandwiches are there, Mrs. Kent?”

About sunset Joyce went home to see that Keith was behaving properly and snatched two hours’ sleep while she could.  Another shipment of food had to be sent out that night and she did not expect to get to bed till well into the small hours.

Keith was on hand when she awakened to beg for permission to go out to the fire.

“I’ll carry water, Joy, to the men.  Some one’s got to carry it, ain’t they, ‘n’ if I don’t mebbe a man’ll haf to.”

The young mother shook her head decisively.  “No, Keithie, you’re too little.  Grow real fast and you’ll be a big boy soon.”

“You don’t ever lemme have any fun,” he pouted.  “I gotta go to bed an’ sleep an’ sleep an’ sleep.”

She had no time to stay and comfort him.  He pulled away sulkily from her good-night kiss and refused to be placated.  As she moved away into the darkness, it gave Joyce a tug of the heart to see his small figure on the porch.  For she knew that as soon as she was out of sight he would break down and wail.

He did.  Keith was of that temperament which wants what it wants when it wants it.  After a time his sobs subsided.  There wasn’t much use crying when nobody was around to pay any attention to him.

He went to bed and to sleep.  It was hours later that the voice of some one calling penetrated his dreams.  Keith woke up, heard the sound of a knocking on the door, and went to the window.  The cook was deaf as a post and would never hear.  His sister was away.  Perhaps it was a message from his father.

A man stepped out from the house and looked up at him.  “Mees Crawford, ees she at home maybeso?” he asked.  The man was a Mexican.

“Wait a jiffy.  I’ll get up,” the youngster called back.

He hustled into his clothes, went down, and opened the door.

“The senorita.  Ees she at home?” the man asked again.

“She’s down to the Boston Emporium cuttin’ sandwiches an’ packin’ ’em,” Keith said.  “Who wants her?”

“I have a note for her from Senor Sanders.”

Master Keith seized his opportunity promptly.  “I’ll take you down there.”

The man brought his horse from the hitching-rack across the road.  Side by side they walked downtown, the youngster talking excitedly about the fire, the Mexican either keeping silence or answering with a brief “Si, muchacho.”

Into the Boston Emporium Keith raced ahead of the messenger.  “Joy, Joy, a man wants to see you!  From Dave!” he shouted.

Joyce flushed.  Perhaps she would have preferred not to have her private business shouted out before a roomful of women.  But she put a good face on it.