h, with the
tiny, glittering steel blade surgery cunningly fashions; and through
its silver canula, tracheotomy recalled the vanishing spirit,
triumphantly renewed the lease of life.

At sunset on the same day, Beryl followed the warden to the door of the
large hospital.

"Of all pitiful sights here, this has harrowed me the most. The doctors
did all they could, and the chaplain worked hard to save her soul, but
she was like flint, till just before the end, when she raised up, and
heard her child crying down in the work-room, where it had been put to
sleep. We could scarcely hold her; she fought like a panther to get out
of bed, till the blood gushed from her nose, and though she could not
speak plainly, she pointed, and we made out: 'Baby--Dovie'. The doctor
would not consent that we should expose the child to the risk, but I
could not hold out against that poor creature's pleading wild eyes, so
I just brought the little one. What a strangling cry she gave, when I
put it in her arms, and how the tears poured! She was almost gone, and
we saw that she wanted to tell us something about the child, but we
could not understand. The doctor put a pencil in her hand, and held a
sheet of paper before her, and she tried to scrawl her wishes, but all
we can read is: 'Her father won't ever own her. Baptize--her Dovie--Eve
Werneth's baby. Don't ever tell her she was born in jail. Raise her a
good--good--.' She had a sort of spasm then, and squeezed the child so
tight, it screamed. In five minutes, she was dead. Only nineteen years
old, and the little one just two years; and not yet weaned! I don't
know what to do; so I brought you. If I touch the child, it seems
frightened almost to death, but maybe you can coax it away. Poor little
thing! What a mercy if it could die!"

"Will you let me have the care of it? Take it, and keep it up in my
cell?"

"I shall be only too thankful, if you will lift the load from my
shoulders."

"Tell the steward to bring me a cup of warm, sweetened milk and a
cracker. The poor little lamb must be almost famished."

Through an open window streamed the radiance of a daffodil sky, flecked
with curling plumes of drifting fire, and the glory fell like a
benediction on the iron cot, where lay the body of the early dead; a
small, slight, blond girl wearing prematurely the crown of maternity,
whose thorns had torn and stained the smooth brow of mere childhood.
The half-opened eyes, fixed in their filmy bl