nt. The child had another fight for his breath; and this
time as he did so, Deborah's body contracted, too. A few moments later
Edith came in. Deborah returned downstairs, and for over an hour she sat by
herself. Roger was in his study, Betsy and George had gone to bed. The
night nurse arrived and was taken upstairs. Still Deborah's mind felt numb
and cold. Instinctively again and again it kept groping toward one point:
"If I had a baby as sick as that, what would I do? What would I do?"

When the doorbell rang again, she frowned, rose quickly and went to the
door. It was Allan.

"Allan--come in here, will you?" she said, and he followed her into the
living room.

"What is it?" he inquired.

"Bruce is worse."

"Oh--I'm sorry. Why didn't Edith let me know?"

"She had Lake to-night," said Deborah. He knitted his brows in annoyance,
then smiled.

"Well, I don't mind that," he replied. "I'm rather glad. She'll feel easier
now. What did he tell her?"

"He seemed to consider it serious--by the number of things he ordered."

"Two nurses, of course--"

"Yes, day and night." Deborah was silent a moment.

"I may be wrong," she continued, "but I still feel sure the child will
live. But I know it means a long hard fight. The expense of it all will be
heavy."

"Well?"

"Whatever it is, I'll meet it," she said. "Father can't, he has reached the
end. But even if he could help still, it wouldn't make much difference in
what I've been deciding. Because when I was with Bruce to-night, I saw as
clear as I see you now that if I had a child like that--as sick as
that--I'd sacrifice anything--everything--schools, tenement children,
thousands! I'd use the money which should have been theirs, and the time
and the attention! I'd shut them all out, they could starve if they liked!
I'd be like Edith--exactly! I'd center on this one child of mine!"

Deborah turned her eyes to his, stern and gleaming with her pain. And she
continued sharply:

"But I don't mean to shut those children out! And so it's clear as day to
me that I can't ever marry you! That baby to-night was the finishing
stroke!"

She made a quick restless movement. Baird leaned slowly forward. Her hands
in her lap were clenched together. He took them both and held them hard.

"No, this isn't clear," he said. "I can feel it in your hands. This is
nerves. This is the child upstairs. This is Edith in the house. This is
school, the end of the long winter's strain."