r with trembling
hands. The throbbing of the pulse and the heart's action seemed to
have died away. The child's puny arms and legs were stretched out
convulsively, and the mother grew frantic at the sight.

"My child is dying! Help, help!" she stammered. "My child! my child!"

She wandered back to her room, brushing against the furniture, and
unconscious of her movements; then, distracted, she again returned to
the little bed, throwing herself on her knees, and ever appealing for
help. She took Jeanne in her arms, rained kisses on her hair, and
stroked her little body, begging her to answer, and seeking one word
--only one word--from her silent lips. Where was the pain? Would she
have some of the cooling drink she had liked the other day? Perhaps
the fresh air would revive her? So she rattled on, bent on making the
child speak.

"Speak to me, Jeanne! speak to me, I entreat you!"

Oh, God! and not to know what to do in this sudden terror born of the
night! There was no light even. Then her ideas grew confused, though
her supplications to the child continued--at one moment she was
beseeching, at another answering in her own person. Thus, the pain
gripped her in the stomach; no, no, it must be in the breast. It was
nothing at all; she need merely keep quiet. Then Helene tried to
collect her scattered senses; but as she felt her daughter stark and
stiff in her embrace, her heart sickened unto death. She tried to
reason with herself, and to resist the yearning to scream. But all at
once, despite herself, her cry rang out

"Rosalie, Rosalie! my child is dying. Quick, hurry for the doctor."

Screaming out these words, she ran through dining-room and kitchen
to a room in the rear, where the maid started up from sleep, giving
vent to her surprise. Helene speeded back again. Clad only in her
night-dress she moved about, seemingly not feeling the icy cold of the
February night. Pah! this maid would loiter, and her child would die!
Back again she hurried through the kitchen to the bedroom before a
minute had elapsed. Violently, and in the dark, she slipped on a
petticoat, and threw a shawl over her shoulders. The furniture in her
way was overturned; the room so still and silent was filled with the
echoes of her despair. Then leaving the doors open, she rushed down
three flights of stairs in her slippers, consumed with the thought
that she alone could bring back a doctor.

After the house-porter had opened the door Helene fo