Daisy was still rocking softly to and fro before the ore, her piteous
burden yet clasped against her heart. The doctor was stooping over
her, and Muriel saw the half-eager, half-suspicious look in Daisy's
eyes as she watched him. She was telling him in rapid whispers what
had happened.

He listened to her very quietly, his keen eyes fixed unblinking upon
the baby's face. When she ended, he stooped a little lower, his hand
upon her arm.

"Let me take him," he said.

Muriel trembled for the answer, remembering the instant refusal with
which her own offer had been met. But Daisy made no sort of protest.
She seemed to yield mechanically.

Only, as he lifted the tiny body from her breast, a startled, almost
a bereft look crossed her face, and she whispered quickly, "You won't
let him cry?"

Jim Ratcliffe was silent a moment while he gazed intently at the
little lifeless form he held. Then very gently, very pitifully, but
withal very steadily, his verdict fell through the silent room.

"He will never cry any more."

Daisy was on her feet in a moment, the agony in her eyes terrible to
see. "Jim! Jim!" she gasped, in a strangled voice. "He isn't dead!
My little darling,--my baby,--the light of my eyes; tell me--he
isn't--dead!"

She bent hungrily over the burden he held, and then gazed wildly into
his face. She was shaking as one in an ague.

Quietly he drew the head-covering over the baby's face. "My dear," he
said, "there is no death."

The words were few, spoken almost in an undertone; but they sent a
curious, tingling thrill through Muriel--a thrill that seemed to
reach her heart. For the first time, unaccountably, wholly intangibly,
she was aware of a strong resemblance between this man whom she
honoured and the man she feared. She almost felt as if Nick himself
had uttered the words.

Standing dumbly by the door, she saw the doctor stoop to lay the poor
little body down in the cot, saw Daisy's face of anguish, and the
sudden, wide-flung spread of her empty arms.

The next moment, her woman's instinct prompting her, she sprang
forward; and it was she who caught the stricken mother as she fell.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CREED OF A FIGHTER

It was growing very hot in the plains. A faint breeze born at sunset
had died away long ago, leaving a wonderful, breathless stillness
behind. The man who sat at work on his verandah with his shirt-sleeves
turned up above his elbows sighed heavily from time to ti