t about all that, the value of the document, and
the rest of it, and about what he ought to do. It was with him as he lay
awake on his bed, shut in by the two cots; it, and the fear of
forgetting to feed Baby, got into his dreams and troubled them; they
watched by him in his sleep; they woke him early and were with him when
he woke.

Dossie woke too. He took her into his bed and played with her, and in
playing he forgot his grief. A little before seven he got up and
dressed. He washed Dossie and dressed her as well as he could, with
tender, clumsy fingers that fumbled over all her little strings and
buttons. Pain, and pleasure poignant as pain, thrilled him with every
soft contact with her darling body. He tried to brush her hair as Winny
brushed it, all in ducks' tails and in feathers.

He went down and busied himself, hours earlier than he need, making the
fire, getting ready Dossie's breakfast and Baby's and his own. Foraging
in the larder, he came upon a beefsteak pie that, evidently, Winny had
made for him, as if in foreknowledge of his need. When he had washed up
the breakfast things and the things that were left over from last night,
he went upstairs and made his bed, clumsily. Then he went down again and
tidied the sitting-room. In all this he was driven by his determination
to leave nothing for Winny to do for him when she came. He went to and
fro, with Dossie toddling after him and laughing.

Upstairs, Baby laughed in his cot.

And all the time, Ranny, with his obsession of bereavement and calamity,
was unaware of the peace, the exquisite, the unimaginable peace that had
settled upon Granville.

* * * * *

At half past eight Winny looked in (entering by the open door of
Granville) to see what she could do.

She found him in the bathroom, trying to wash Baby. He had put the
little zinc bath with Baby in it inside the big one.

"Whatever did you do that for, Ranny?" Winny asked, while her heart
yearned to him.

He said he had to. The little beggar splashed so. Good idea, wasn't it?

Almost he had forgotten his bereavement.

Winny shook her head.

"Anyhow, I've washed him all right."

"Yes," said she. "But you'll never dry him."

"Why not?"

"You can't. Not in here. There isn't room for you to set. Where's your
chair and your flannel apron?"

"Flannel apron?"

"Yes. If you don't wear one you'll not get any hold on him. He'll slip
between your knees before you