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At the hottest hours of the hot night Judith recalled to herself the cool of that day. She brought back the fresh pale greenness of the nook among the bushes into which she had forced her way, the scent of the leaves and grass which she had drawn in as she breathed, the nearness in the eyes of the bird, the squirrel, and the child. She smiled as she thought of these things, and as she continued to remember yet other things, bit by bit, she felt less hot–she gradually forgot to listen for the roar of the train–she smiled still more–she lay quite still–she was cool–a tiny fresh breeze fluttered through the window and played about her forehead. She was smiling in soft delight as her eyelids drooped and closed.

“I am falling awake,” she was murmuring as her lashes touched her cheek.

Perhaps when her eyes closed the sultriness of the night had changed to the momentary freshness of the turning dawn, and the next hour or so was really cooler. She knew no more heat but slept softly, deeply, long–or it seemed to her afterwards that she had slept long–as if she had drifted far away in dreamless peace.

She remembered no dream, saw nothing, felt nothing until, as it seemed to her, in the early morning, she opened her eyes. All was quite still and clear–the air of the room was pure and sweet. There was no sound anywhere and, curiously enough, she was not surprised by this, nor did she expect to hear anything disturbing.

She did not look round the room. Her eyes remained resting upon what she first saw–and she was not surprised by this either. A little girl about her own age was standing smiling at her. She had large eyes, a deep dimple near her mouth, and coppery red hair which fell about her cheeks and shoulders. Judith knew her and smiled back at her.

She lifted her hand–and it was a pure white little hand with long tapering fingers.

“Come and play with me,” she said–though Judith heard no voice while she knew what she was saying. “Come and play with me.”

Then she was gone, and in a few seconds Judith was awake, the air of the room had changed, the noise and clatter of the streets came in at the window, and the Elevated train went thundering by. Judith did not ask herself how the child had gone or how she had come. She lay still, feeling undisturbed by everything and smiling as she had smiled in her sleep.

While she sat at the breakfast table she saw her mother looking at her curiously.

“You look as if you’d slept cool instead of hot last night,” she said. “You look better than you did yesterday. You’re pretty well, ain’t you, Judy?”

Judith’s smile meant that she was quite well, but she said nothing about her sleeping.

The heat did not disturb her through the day, though the hours grew hotter and hotter as they passed. Jane Foster, sweltering at her machine, was obliged to stop every few minutes to wipe the beads from her face and neck. Sometimes she could not remain seated, but got up panting to drink water and fan herself with a newspaper.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” she kept saying. “If there don’t come a thunderstorm to cool things off I don’t know what I’ll do. This room’s about five hundred.”

But the heat grew greater and the Elevated trains went thundering by.

When Jem came home from his work his supper was not ready. Jane was sitting helplessly by the window, almost livid in her pallor. The table was but half spread.

“Hullo,” said Jem; “it’s done you up, ain’t it?”

“Well, I guess it has,” good-naturedly, certain of his sympathy. “But I’ll get over it presently, and then I can get you a cold bite. I can’t stand over the stove and cook.”

“Hully Gee, a cold bite’s all a man wants on a night like this. Hot chops’d give him the jim-jams. But I’ve got good news for you–it’s cheered me up myself.”