room brought her to her feet, fright
clutching her heart. Margar was croupy again!

It was a sufficiently familiar emergency, but Martie never grew used to
it. She ran to the child's side, catching up the new bottle of
medicine. A hideous paroxysm subsided as she took the baby in her arms,
but Margar sank back so heavily exhausted that no coaxing persuaded her
to open her eyes, or to do more than reject with fretful little lips
the medicine spoon. She is very ill--Martie said to herself fearfully.
She flew to her husband's side.

"Wallie--I hate to wake you! But Margar is croupy, and I'm going to run
for Dr. Converse. Light the croup kettle, will you, I won't be a
moment!"

His daughter was the core of Wallace's heart. He was instantly alert.

"Here, let me go, Mart! I'll get something on--"

"No, no, I'm dressed! But look at her, Wallie," Martie said, as they
came together to stand by the crib. "I don't like the way she's
breathing--"

She looked eagerly at his face, but saw only her own disquiet reflected
there.

"Get the doctor," he said, tucking the blankets about the shabby little
double-gown. "I'll keep her warm--"

A moment later Martie, buttoned into her old squirrel-lined coat, was
in the quiet, deserted street, which was being muffled deeper and
deeper in the softly falling snow. Steps, areas, fences, were alike
furred in soft white, old gratings wore an exquisite coating over their
dingy filigree. The snow was coming down evenly, untouched by wind, the
flakes twisting like long ropes against the street lights. A gang of
men were talking and clanking shovels on the car tracks; an ambulance
thudded by, the wheels grating and slipping on the snow.

Dr. and Mrs. Converse were in their dining room, a pleasant, shabby
room smelling of musk, and with an old oil painting of fruit, a cut
watermelon, peaches and grapes, a fringed napkin and a glass of red
wine, over the curved black marble mantel. The old man was enjoying a
late supper, but struggled into his great coat cheerfully enough. Mrs.
Converse tried to persuade Martie to have just a sip of sherry, but
Martie was frantic to be gone. In a moment she and the old man were on
their way, through the silent, falling snow again, and in her own
hallway, and she was crying to Wallace: "How is she?"

The room was steamy with the fumes of the croup kettle; Wallace, the
child in his arms, met them with a face of terror. Both men bent over
the baby.

"She see