Before I could ask why she had not rested as usual, she put a question
to me. "Well, what is it?"

"What's what?" I returned.

"Why," she exclaimed, "you have been up most of the night. I wanted to
ask if you were ill, but I was counting sheep jumping over the fence,
and it made me so sleepy I mixed you up with them. I hope it isn't the
precious cod-liver babies that are keeping you awake."

It was at Jane's suggestion that we had eliminated meat from our menu
and established a kind of liquid food station for the ill-nourished
offspring of the quarry women near us.

I assured Miss Gray that babies had been far from my thoughts. Then I
told her of my interview with Kishimoto San; of how Zura Wingate had
come to her grandfather's house; of her rebellion against things that
were; and that she was to come to me for private study. Had I not been
so excited over the elements of romance in my story, I would have
omitted telling Jane of the incident of the girl and the youth in the
park, for it had a wonderful effect on her.

Jane's sentiment was like a full molasses pitcher that continues to drip
in spite of all the lickings you give it. At once I saw I was in for an
overflow. It was the only part of the story she took in, and as she
listened, passed into some kind of a spell. She cuddled down into her
chair and shut her eyes like a child in the ecstasies of a fairy story.
She barely breathed enough to say, "The darlings! and in that lovely old
park! I hope it was moonlight. Do you suppose they sat under the