It had grown cold, and I reached for the quilt; but something prompted me to reach up and see whether Ace was still there.

He lay there asleep, and, as I could feel, cold.

I picked up the quilt, threw it over him, tucked him in as my mother used to tuck me in,--thinking of her as I did it--and went back to my bunk.

I was sorry I had cut Ace's head, and had already begun to forget how cruelly he had used me.

I seemed to feel his blood on my hands, and got up and washed them.