“Eve Edgarton,” he stammered, “you’re—­a—­brick!  You—­you must have been invented just for the sole purpose of saving people’s lives.  Oh, you’ve saved mine all right!” he acknowledged soberly.  “And all this black, blasted night you’ve nursed me—­and fed me—­and jollied me—­without a whimper about yourself—­without—­a—­” Impulsively he reached out his numb-palmed hand to her, and her own hand came so cold to it that it might have been the caress of one ghost to another.  “Eve Edgarton,” he reiterated, “I tell you—­you’re a brick!  And I’m a fool—­and a slob—­and a mutt-head—­even when I’m not chock-full of lightning, as you call it!  But if there’s ever anything I can do for you!”

“What did you say?” muttered little Eve Edgarton.

“I said you were a brick!” repeated Barton a bit irritably.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—­that,” mused the girl.  “But what was the—­last thing you said?”

“Oh!” grinned Barton more cheerfully.  “I said—­if there was ever anything that I could do for you, anything—­”

“Would you rent me your attic?” asked little Eve Edgarton.

“Would I rent you my attic?” stammered Barton.  “Why in the world should you want to hire my attic?”

“So I could buy pretty things in Siam—­or Ceylon—­or any other queer country—­and have some place to send them,” said little Eve Edgarton.  “Oh, I’d pay the express, Mr. Barton,” she hastened to assure him.  “Oh, I promise you there never would be any trouble about the express!  Or about the rent!” Expeditiously as she spoke she reached for her hip pocket and brought out a roll of bills that fairly took Barton’s breath away.  “If there’s one thing in the world, you know, that I’ve got, it’s money,” she confided perfectly simply.  “So you see, Mr. Barton,” she added with sudden wistfulness, “there’s almost nothing on the face of the globe that I couldn’t have—­if I only had some place to put it.”  Without further parleying she proffered the roll of bills to him.

“Miss Edgarton!  Are you crazy?” Barton asked again quite precipitously.

Again the girl answered his question equally frankly, and without offense.  “Oh, no,” she said.  “Only very determined.”

“Determined about what?” grinned Barton in spite of himself.

“Determined about an attic,” drawled little Eve Edgarton.

With an unwonted touch of vivacity she threw out one hand in a little, sharp gesture of appeal; but not a tone of her voice either quickened or deepened.

“Why, Mr. Barton,” she droned, “I’m thirty years old—­and ever since I was born I’ve been traveling all over the world—­in a steamer trunk.  In a steamer trunk, mind you.  With Father always standing over every packing to make sure that we never carry anything that—­isn’t necessary.  With Father, I said,” she re-emphasized by a sudden distinctness.  “You know Father!” she added significantly.

“Yes—­I know ‘Father,’” assented Barton with astonishing glibness.