"I don't expect I have." He felt in his pocket. "Yes, I have. What for?"

She took it and wetted it with milk and put it on his forehead.

"That's jolly," he said; "what is it?"

"Milk," said Bobbie. "We haven't any water—"

"You're a jolly good little nurse," said Jim.

"I do it for Mother sometimes," said Bobbie,—"not milk, of course, but scent, or vinegar and water. I say, I must put the candle out now, because there mayn't be enough of the other one to get you out by."

"By George," said he, "you think of everything."

Bobbie blew. Out went the candle. You have no idea how black-velvety the darkness was.

"I say, Bobbie," said a voice through the blackness, "'aren't you afraid of the dark?"

"Not—not very, that is—"

"Let's hold hands," said the boy, and it was really rather good of him, because he was like most boys of his age and hated all material tokens of affection, such as kissing and holding of hands. He called all such things "pawings," and detested them.

The darkness was more bearable to Bobbie now