"Well, yes, I suppose he's OUR Brother Ware--some," returned Soulsby,
genially. "He seems to think so, anyway."

"But tell me about it!" she urged eagerly. "What's the matter with him?
How does he explain it?"

"Well, he explains it pretty badly, if you ask me," said Soulsby, with
a droll, joking eye and a mock-serious voice. He seated himself on the
side of the bed, facing her, and still considerately shielding her
from the light of the lamp he held. "But don't think I suggested any
explanations. I've been a mother myself. He's merely filled himself up
to the neck with rum, in the simple, ordinary, good old-fashioned way.
That's all. What is there to explain about that?"

She looked meditatively at him for a time, shaking her head. "No,
Soulsby," she said gravely, at last. "This isn't any laughing matter.
You may be sure something bad has happened, to set him off like that.
I'm going to get up and dress right now. What time is it?"

"Now don't you do anything of the sort," he urged persuasively. "It
isn't five o'clock; it'll be dark for nearly an hour yet. Just you turn
over, and have another nap. He's all right. I put him on the sofa, with
the buffalo robe round him. You'll find him there, safe and sound, when
it's time for white folks to get up. You know how it breaks you up all
day, not to get your full sleep."

"I don't care if it makes me look as old as the everlasting hills," she
said. "Can't you understand, Soulsby? The thing worries me--gets on my
nerves. I couldn't close an eye, if I tried. I took a great fancy to