food and of
providing against emergencies. At least a portion of the wood as he
shoved it into the stove crackled and spit with the wetness of snow;
the box had been replenished, evidently within the last few days.

Soon water was boiling. Hot cloths went to the woman's head; quietly,
reverently, Barry had taken the still, small child from the tightly
clenched arm and covered it, on the little table. And with the touch
of the small, lifeless form, the resentment which had smoldered in
Houston's heart for months seemed to disappear. Instinctively he knew
what a baby means to a mother,--and she must be its mother. He
understood that the agony of loss which was hers was far greater even
than the agony which her faithlessness had meant for him. Gently,
almost tenderly, he went again to the bed, to chafe the cold, thin
wrists, to watch anxiously the eyes, then at last to bend forward. The
woman was looking at him, staring with fright in her gaze, almost
terror.

"Barry--" the word was more of a mumble. "Barry--" then the eyes
turned, searching for the form that no longer was beside her.
"My--my--" Then, with a spasm of realization, she was silent. Houston
strove dully for words.

"I'm sorry--Agnes. Don't be afraid of me. I'll get help for you."

"Don't." The voice was a monotone, minus expression, almost minus
life. The face had become blank, so much parchment drawn over bone.
"I've been sick--my baby--where's my baby?"

"Don't you know?"

"Yes," came at last. There was the dullness that comes when grief has
reached the breaking point. "Dead. It died--yesterday morning."

Houston could say nothing in answer. The simple statement was too
tragic, too full of meaning, too fraught with the agony of that long
day and night of suffering, for any reply in words that would not jar,
or cause even a greater pang. Quietly he turned to the stove, red-hot
now, and with snow water began the making of gruel from the supplies on
the shelf. Once he turned, suddenly aware that the eyes of the woman
were centered in his direction. But they were not upon him; their gaze
was for one thing, one alone,--that tiny, covered form on the table.

An hour passed silently, except for the trivialities of speech
accompanying the proffered food. Then, at last, forcing himself to the
subject, Houston asked a question:

"Where is he?"

"Who?" Sudden fright had come into the woman's eyes. A name formed on
Houston's lips, o