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“Don’t be frightened,” she said. “It’s only me—Ann Merrill—you were walking in your sleep. It’s all right now.”

Then suddenly, she knew that on her shoulder Vera Holmes was sobbing; and she soothed her as she would have soothed a child.

“Hush! Hush! Don’t cry! Come back with me! Into your room—to bed.”

She pulled wide the wire-screened door, and led the wanderer through, felt for the bed, and soon had wrapped the blankets tightly round the weeping woman whose distress she longed to comfort.

“Shall I light the lamp?”

“No, no,” said Vera Holmes.

“Very well—lie still. There’s nothing to be frightened of. How lucky that I met you. You might have wandered down into the paddocks. Are you warmer now?”

“Yes, go back to your room———”

“I don’t like to leave you.”

“I’m all right now.”

Her voice was more controlled and steady.

“Was I walking in my sleep?”

“Yes.”

“It was good of you to help me.” The shivering and the sobbing were abating. “Why were you out there—just then?”

“I thought the dawn was breaking and I was wakeful. I wanted to see the sunrise.”

“The dawn? But it’s too early for the dawn.”

“I know—I forgot that my watch was set at station time.”

“It’s only just after two by town time, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”