After a moment the mother went slowly back to her
seat. "Hand me the thermometer," said the doctor to the nurse.

In the early morning came a telegram from Paul. "Wire me frequently
baby's condition. Spare no expense in treatment."

Lydia answered: "Ariadne slightly worse. Doctor says crisis in three
days."

This time she put in no extra information as to the baby's suffering,
and her message was under ten words, like his own. She despatched him
thereafter a bulletin every four or five hours. They ran mostly to the
effect that Ariadne was about the same.

The doctor came and went, the nurses relieved each other, the telephone
rang for Marietta's inquiries, Flora Burgess called once a day to get
the news from 'Stashie. Lydia was slave to the nurses, alert for the
slightest service she could render them, divining, with a desperate
intuition, their needs before they were formulated. 'Stashie was the
only person who paid the least attention to her, 'Stashie the only
phenomena to break in on the solitude that surrounded her like an
illimitable plain. 'Stashie made her eat. 'Stashie saw to it that once
or twice she lay down. 'Stashie combed her hair, and bathed her white
face--most of all, 'Stashie went about with eyes that reflected
faithfully the suffering in Lydia's own. She said very little, but as
they passed, the two women sometimes exchanged brief words: "Niver you
think it possible, Mis' Hollister!"

"No," Lydia would answer resolutely; "it's not possible."

But as the hours slowly filed past the doctor assured her bluntly that
it would be quite possible. "There's a fighting chance," he said, "and
nothing more." He added relentlessly, "If I hadn't been such a fool as
to let you wean her--"

There was in his manner none of his usual tenderness to his godchild.
One would have thought he scarcely saw her. He was the physician wholly.
Lydia was grateful to him for this. She could not have borne his
tenderness then, but his professional concentration left her horribly
alone.

No, not alone! There was always 'Stashie--silent 'Stashie, with red
eyes, her heart bleeding. But even 'Stashie's loyal heart could not know
all the bitterness of Lydia's. 'Stashie's breasts did not swell and
throb, as if in mockery. 'Stashie did not hear, over and over, "If she
had not been weaned--"

On the night and near the hour when the crisis was expected, Lydia was
at the end of the hall, where she had installed an oil-stove. She wa