back," Frederik told
himself, in self-excuse for his cowardice. "And if any one does, the
picture is too badly torn to be recognised. I----"

He found that his terror-ridden subconsciousness was backing his
trembling body toward the outer door. The door that led from that
haunted room--from the desk he dared not go near,--out into the safe,
peace-giving night of summer.

And, snatching up his hat and stick, the shuddering, white-faced young
master of the Grimm fortune half-stumbled, half-ran, from his home.

"Hicks's lawyer will be waiting," he said to his battered self-respect.
"I'm late as it is. I must hurry."

And hurry he did, nor checked his rapid pace until he had reached his
destination.

Scarce had the door banged shut after Frederik when Peter Grimm raised
his eyes once more toward Willem's room. And again the little white-clad
figure appeared, and tiptoed toward the stair head.

Willem paused a moment, looked over the banisters to make certain that
Frederik had gone, then stole down to the big living-room. His cheeks
were flushed with fever. He was tired all over. His head throbbed. And
his throat was unbearably dry. The perpetual thirst of childhood,
augmented by the gnawing, unbearable thirst of fever, sent him speeding
to the sideboard. He picked up the big ice-water pitcher,--chilled and
frosted by inner cold and outer dampness--and poured out a glassful of
the stingingly cold water. The boy gulped down the contents of the glass
in almost a single draught. Then he filled a second glass and, with
epicurean delight, let the water trickle slowly and coolingly down his
hot throat. Peter Grimm stood beside him, a gentle hand on the thin
little shoulder. His thirst slaked, Willem glanced fearfully toward the
front door.

"Oh, he won't come back for a long time," Peter Grimm soothed him.
"Don't be afraid. He went out in a hurry and he hasn't yet stopped
hurrying. He--thought he saw _me_."

Willem, reassured, laid his burning cheek against the frosted, icy side
of the pitcher. A smile of utter bliss overspread his face.

"My, but it feels good!" sighed the boy.

The Dead Man continued to look down at him with an infinite pity.

"Willem," said he, stroking the tousled head and smoothing away its
stabbing pain, "there are some little soldiers in this world who are
handicapped when they come into Life's battlefield. Their parents
haven't fitted them for the fight. Poor little moon-moths! They look in