Across the field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window.
"When she's dead," he said to himself, "that fire will go out." He took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs.

His mothers door was wide open, because she slept alone still.

The red firelight dashed its glow on the landing.

Soft as a shadow, he peeped in her doorway.
"Paul!" she murmured.
His heart seemed to break again.

He went in and sat by the bed.
"How late you are!" she murmured.
"Not very," he said.
"Why, what time is it ?" The murmur came plaintive and helpless.
"It's only just gone eleven." That was not true; it was nearly one o'clock.
"Oh!" she said; "I thought it was later." And he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go.
"Can't you sleep, my pigeon ?" he said.
"No, I can't," she wailed.
"Never mind, Little!" He said crooning.