The irons had cooled too much, and the fire was low. Miss Theodosia went
to work again. As she worked, she talked to herself sociably.

"Adventures thicken! Stars, and angels in caps, and children that walk
in their little sleeps! And little heaps in clothes baskets, that are
babies! And--Theodosia Baxter--a Man! Out of a clear, inky sky! Why
weren't you scared? How do you know--you never even saw his face--maybe
he was a thief, and a marauder, and a thug!"

Granted, if thieves and marauders and those awful things, thugs, carry
little loads or sleep as tenderly as women--and never wake them; if they
are polite and say good night--. What kind of marauding and--and
thugging is that?

"What will Stefana think when she finds my apron in bed with her!"
suddenly laughed Miss Theodosia, breaking the spell. "Funny Stefana! she
goes to my heart, she and her starch--when they're asleep!"

But, awake, Stefana's starch went to Miss Theodosia's back and aching
bones. It was three o'clock when she was ready to go to bed. Over chairs
and the couch in her sitting-room, lay the three redeemed white dresses,
soft again and very smoochless and smooth. Miss Theodosia stood and
admired. She was full of pride and weariness. At last, at thirty-six,
she had done real work; she loved the feel of it in her tired bones. She
loved her night of adventuring. Life--she loved that. So she went to bed
at three, when the birds were beginning to get up. If her throat--calm
and grown-up throat--had not persistently tightened, she would have gone
to sleep laughing at the remembrance of it all. All the funny night. Why
wasn't it funny? Why couldn't she laugh? She sat up in bed.