David and I had a tremendous adventure. It was this, he passedthe night with me. We had often talked of it as a possiblething, and at last Mary consented to our having it.

The adventure began with David's coming to me at the unwontedhour of six P.M., carrying what looked like a packet ofsandwiches, but proved to be his requisites for the night done upin a neat paper parcel. We were both so excited that, at themoment of greeting, neither of us could be apposite to theoccasion in words, so we communicated our feelings by signs; asthus, David half sat down in a place where there was no chair,which is his favourite preparation for being emphatic, and isborrowed, I think, from the frogs, and we then made theextraordinary faces which mean, "What a tremendous adventure!"

We were to do all the important things precisely as they are doneevery evening at his own home, and so I am in a puzzle to knowhow it was such an adventure to David. But I have now saidenough to show you what an adventure it was to me.

For a little while we played with my two medals, and, with thedelicacy of a sleeping companion, David abstained on thisoccasion from asking why one of them was not a Victoria Cross. He is very troubled because I never won the Victoria Cross, forit lowers his status in the Gardens. He never says in theGardens that I won it, but he fights any boy of his year who saysI didn't. Their fighting consists of challenging each other.

At twenty-five past six I turned on the hot water in the bath,and covertly swallowed a small glass of brandy. I then said,"Half- past six; time for little boys to be in bed." I said itin the matter-of-fact voice of one made free of the company ofparents, as if I had said it often before, and would have to sayit often again, and as if there was nothing particularlydelicious to me in hearing myself say it. I tried to say it inthat way.

And David was deceived. To my exceeding joy he stamped hislittle foot, and was so naughty that, in gratitude, I gave himfive minutes with a matchbox. Matches, which he drops on thefloor when lighted, are the greatest treat you can give David;indeed, I think his private heaven is a place with a roaringbonfire.

Then I placed my hand carelessly on his shoulder, like one atrifle bored by the dull routine of putting my little boys tobed, and conducted him to the night nursery, which had latelybeen my private chamber. There was an extra bed in it tonight,very near my own, but differently shaped, and scarcely lessconspicuous was the new mantel-shelf ornament: a tumbler of milk,with a biscuit on top of it, and a chocolate riding on thebiscuit. To enter the room without seeing the tumbler at oncewas impossible. I had tried it several times, and David saw andpromptly did his frog business, the while, with an indescribableemotion, I produced a night-light from my pocket and planted itin a saucer on the wash- stand.

David watched my preparations with distasteful levity, but anonmade a noble amend by abruptly offering me his foot as if he hadno longer use for it, and I knew by intuition that he expected meto take off his boots. I took them off with all the coolness ofan old hand, and then I placed him on my knee and removed hisblouse. This was a delightful experience, but I think I remainedwonderfully calm until I came somewhat too suddenly to his littlebraces, which agitated me profoundly.

I cannot proceed in public with the disrobing of David.

Soon the night nursery was in darkness, but for the glimmer fromthe night-light, and very still save when the door creaked as aman peered in at the little figure on the bed. However softly Iopened the door, an inch at a time, his bright eyes turned to meat once, and he always made the face which means, "What atremendous adventure!"

"Are you never to fall asleep, David?" I always said.

"When are you coming to bed?" he always replied, very brave butin a whisper, as if he feared the bears and wolves might havehim. When little boys are in bed there is nothing between themand bears and wolves but the night-light.

I returned to my chair to think, and at last he fell asleep withhis face to the wall, but even then I stood many times at thedoor, listening.

Long after I had gone to bed a sudden silence filled the chamber,and I knew that David had awaked. I lay motionless, and, afterwhat seemed a long time of waiting, a little far-away voice saidin a cautious whisper, "Irene!"

"You are sleeping with me to-night, you know, David," I said.

"I didn't know," he replied, a little troubled but trying not tobe a nuisance.

"You remember you are with me?" I asked.

After a moment's hesitation he replied, "I nearly remember," andpresently he added very gratefully, as if to some angel who hadwhispered to him, "I remember now."

I think he had nigh fallen asleep again when he stirred and said,"Is it going on now?"

"What?"

"The adventure."

"Yes, David."

Perhaps this disturbed him, for by-and-by I had to inquire, "Youare not frightened, are you?"

"Am I not?" he answered politely, and I knew his hand was gropingin the darkness, so I put out mine and he held on tightly to onefinger.

"I am not frightened now," he whispered.

"And there is nothing else you want?"

"Is there not?" he again asked politely. "Are you sure there'snot?" he added.

"What can it be, David?"

"I don't take up very much room," the far-away voice said.

"Why, David," said I, sitting up, "do you want to come into mybed?"

"Mother said I wasn't to want it unless you wanted it first," hesqueaked.

"It is what I have been wanting all the time," said I, and thenwithout more ado the little white figure rose and flung itself atme. For the rest of the night he lay on me and across me, andsometimes his feet were at the bottom of the bed and sometimes onthe pillow, but he always retained possession of my finger, andoccasionally he woke me to say that he was sleeping with me. Ihad not a good night. I lay thinking.

Of this little boy, who, in the midst of his play while Iundressed him, had suddenly buried his head on my knees.

Of the woman who had been for him who could be sufficientlydaring.

Of David's dripping little form in the bath, and how when Iessayed to catch him he had slipped from my arms like a trout.

Of how I had stood by the open door listening to his sweetbreathing, had stood so long that I forgot his name and calledhim Timothy.