He would then find some way to tie the loose, careless
life to the life that it had maimed, to the life it had brought into
existence. In this driving storm of circumstance that a week since had
hurled a human being out of the world and last night had brought a
second to take its place, he found himself helpless. His long career, a
career in which he had decided with quiet assurance the guilt or
innocence of men and women standing fearful before him, was of no
assistance. This was not another man's problem but his own. He poured
himself a drink from the old, ruby-glass decanter upon the sideboard,
and found his hand trembling so that the liquor was spilled upon the
cloth. His head swirled with the swirling leaves that the rain tore from
their sockets. All that he had believed and preached was taken from him
by his own world's tragic storm.

In the south room, however, it was peaceful and quiet. The wind spent
its strength in the north, and here one could listen to the creak of the
chair as the old nurse rocked slowly back and forth. Near her, on the
bed, upon her back, was a young girl. Her curling brown hair lay a braid
on either side of her delicate face. Her eyes were closed, but not in
sleep, for every now and then she would move her right arm as though to
draw something toward her. At length, opening her eyes, and looking to
the far corner of the room, she said: "Mammy, I want it."

The old colored woman left her seat and walked to where a cradle stood.
"Not right now, lil' lamb."

"Why not?"

"It done sleep now."

The girl turned upon her side and, crooking her arm, rested her head
within it. She listened, her brow slightly wrinkled, to the rain as it
beat upon the roof of the gallery.

Presently: "Why doesn't it cry, mammy?"

"Ain't I tole yer, chile, it done sleep. Ain't I tole yer?"

Downstairs the man of the house had stepped across the hall and joined a
little thin old gentleman who sat close to a blazing fire.

"Doctor!"

"Yes, George."

"Remember Lillias when you gave her to me, eighteen years ago?"

"What of it?"

"Nothing. How helpless she was. I reckon all baby things are helpless."
In lowered voice: "That baby upstairs now. It seems worse being a girl."

The doctor made no reply, but crouched by the fire.

"It's up to us what their lives shall be, eh? Queen or beggar maid."

The man of the house looked forlornly at his silent visitor. "Have a
drink?" he asked suddenly. "I'll get you