e
rail at the foot of the bed, his hand fell on something
soft that hung there. It was Paula's long bronze hair they
had cut off for coolness to her head.

"The doctor did not wait for the question.

"'There will be a crisis before day,' he said.

"'What does that mean?' asked the other. The doctor
explained that Paula would rise, as it were, to the crest
of a steep hill, whence she would go down to life or death
as God should please.

"'But what can we do?' demanded the Predikant.

"'Very little,' replied the doctor. 'Beyond the care I am
giving her now, the thing is out of our hands. We can only
look on and hope. There is always hope.'

"'And always hope betrayed,' said the Predikant. 'But is
she worse now than she was this afternoon when she babbled
of the little hands?'

"'Yes,' answered the doctor.

"'But I prayed,' said the Predikant, with a faint note of
argument and question.

"'Quite right, too,' replied the doctor.' Go and pray
again,' he suggested.

"The Predikant shook his head.' It is wasting time,' he
whispered, and turned to tiptoe out. But at the door he
turned and crept back again.

"'It is my wife, you see,' he said mildly--'my wife, so if
one thing fails we must try another. You see?'

"The doctor nodded soothingly, and the Predikant crept out
again.

"The doctor sat beside the bed and watched the sick woman,
and heard her weak murmur of children born in the dreams of
fever. It was a still night, cool, and hung with a white
glory of stars, and the point at which life and death
should meet and choose drew quickly near.

There was this and that to do, small offices that a woman
should serve; but the doctor had ordered the women away and
did them himself. He was a large man, who continually fell
off when he mounted a horse, but in a sick-room he was
extraordinarily deft, and trod velvet footed. So in the
business of leading Paula to the point where God would
relieve him time went fast, and presently he knew the
minute was at hand.

"He was sitting, intent and strung, when he heard from the
garden outside the house a bell tinkle lightly. He frowned,
for it was no time for noises; but it tinkled again and yet
again, louder and more insistent, while a change grew
visibly on the face of the sick woman, and he knew that the
issue was stirring in the womb of circumstance. Then,
brazenly, the bell rang out, and with an oath on his breath
he rose and slipped soundlessly from the room