She looked at him strangely and expectantly.  It seemed to Philip as if she had been waiting for news which she dreaded, and which she feared that he was bringing her.

“May I come in?” he whispered.  “Or would you prefer to go into the other room?”

“You may come in, Philip,” she replied, letting him take her hand.  “I am still dressed.  I have been so dreadfully nervous to-night that I haven’t thought of going to bed.  And the moon is so beautiful through my window.  It has been company.”  Then she asked:  “What have you to tell me, Philip?”

She had stepped into the light that flooded through the window.  It transformed her hair into a lustrous mantle of deep gold; into her eyes it put the warm glow of the stars.  He made a movement, as if to put his arms about her, but he caught himself, and a little joyous breath came to Josephine’s lips.  It was her room, where she slept—­and he had come at a strange hour.  She understood the movement, his desire to take her in his arms, and his big, clean thoughts of her as he drew a step back.  It sent a flush of pleasure and still deeper trust into her cheeks.

“You have something to tell me?” she asked.

“Yes—­about your mother.”

Her hand had touched his arm, and he felt her start.  Briefly he told what had happened.  Josephine’s face was so white that it startled him when he had finished.

“She said—­she was going to the baby!” she breathed, as if whispering the words to herself.  “And she was in her bare feet, with her hair down, and her gown open to the snow and wind!  Oh my God!”

“Perhaps she was in her sleep,” hurried Philip.  “It might have been that, Josephine.”

“No, she wasn’t in her sleep,” replied Josephine, meeting his eyes.  “You know that, Philip.  She was awake.  And you have come to tell me so that I may watch her.  I understand.”

“She might rest easier with you—­if you can arrange it,” he agreed.  “Your father worries over her now.  It will not do to let him know this.”

She nodded.

“I will bring her to my room, Philip.  I will tell my father that I am nervous and cannot sleep.  And I will say nothing to her of what has happened.  I will go as soon as you have returned to your room.”

He went to the door, and there for a moment she stood close to him, gazing up into his face.  Still he did not put his hands to her.  To-night—­in her own room—­it seemed to him something like sacrilege to touch her.  And then, suddenly, she raised her two arms up through her shimmering hair to his shoulders. and held her lips to him.

“Good-night, Philip!”

He caught her to him.  Her arms tightened about his shoulders.  For a moment he felt the thrill of her warm lips.  Then she drew back, whispering again: 

“Good-night, Philip!”

The door closed softly, and he returned to his room.  Again the song of life, of love, of hope that pictured but one glorious end filled his soul to overflowing.  A little later and he knew that Adare’s wife had gone with Josephine to her room.  He went to bed.  And sleep came to him now, filled with dreams in which he lived with Josephine always at his side, laughing and singing with him, and giving him her lips to kiss in their joyous paradise.