octor
had said she was out of danger.

The child stirred and spoke. "Anne," she whispered, "tell me about the
bears."

Anne knelt beside the bed. "We must be very quiet," she said. "I don't
want to wake Beulah."

So very softly she told the story. Of the Daddy Bear and the Mother Bear
and the Baby Bear; of the little House in the Woods; of Goldilocks, the
three bowls of soup, the three chairs, the three beds----

In the midst of it all Peggy sat up. "I want a bowl of soup like the
little bear."

"But, darling, you've had your lovely supper."

"I don't care." Peggy's lip quivered. "I'm just starved, and I can't wait
until I have my breakfast."

"Let me tell you the rest of the story."

"No. I don't want to hear it. I want a bowl of soup like the little
bear's."

"Maybe it wasn't nice soup, Peggy."

"But you _said_ it was. You said that the Mother Bear made it out of the
corn from the farmer's field, and the cock that the fox brought, and she
seasoned it with herbs that she found at the edge of the forest. You said
yourself it was _dee-licious_ soup, Miss Anne."

She began to cry weakly.

"Dearie, don't. If I go down into the kitchen and warm some broth will
you keep very still?"

"Yes. Only I don't want just broth. I want soup like the little bear
had."

"Peggy, I am not a fairy godmother. I can't wave my wand and get things
in the middle of the night."

"Well, anyhow, you can put it in a blue bowl, you _said_ the little bear
had his in a blue bowl, and you said he had ten crackers in it. I want
ten crackers----"

The kitchen was warm and shadowy, with the light of a kerosene lamp above
the cook-stove. Anne flitted about noiselessly, finding a little
saucepan, finding a little blue bowl, breaking one cracker into ten bits
to satisfy the insistent Peggy, stirring the bubbling broth with a spoon
as she bent above it.

And as she stirred, she was thinking of Geoffrey Fox, not as she had
thought of Richard, with pulses throbbing and heart fluttering, but
calmly; of his book and of the little bust of Napoleon, and of the
things that she had been reading about the war.

She poured the soup out of the saucepan, and set it steaming on a low
tray. Then quietly she ascended the stairs. Geoffrey's door was wide open
and his room was empty, but through the dimness of the long hall she
discerned his figure, outlined against a wide window at the end. Back of
him the world under the light of the waning moon sh