d, and past its second crisis, that Deborah thought to ask for
John. When he came to her bed, she smiled up at him with the baby in her
arms.

"I thought we'd see him together," she said. John stood on his crutches
staring down. And as Deborah watched him, all at once her look grew intent.
"Johnny," she said softly, "go over there, will you, and turn up the light,
so we can see him better."

And when this was done, though she still talked smilingly of the child,
again and again she glanced up at John's face, at the strange self-absorbed
expression, stern and sad and wistful, there. When he had gone the tears
came in her eyes. And Deborah sent for her husband.

* * * * *

The next day, at the office, John came into Roger's room. Roger had been at
work several days and they had already cleared up their affairs.

"Here's something," said John gruffly, "that I wish you'd put away
somewhere."

And he handed to his partner a small blue leather album, filled with the
newspaper clippings dealing with Deborah's illness. On the front page was
one with her picture and a long record of her service to the children of
New York.

"She wouldn't want to see it now," John continued awkwardly. "But I thought
maybe later on the boy would like to have it. What do you think?" he
inquired. Roger gave him a kindly glance.

"I think he will. It's a fine thing to keep." And he handed it back. "But I
guess you'd better put it away, and give it to her later yourself."

John shifted his weight on his crutches, so quickly that Roger looked up in
alarm:

"Look here! You're not well!" He saw now that the face of the cripple was
white and the sweat was glistening on his brow. John gave a harsh little
nervous laugh.

"Oh, it's nothing much, partner," he replied. "That's another thing I
wanted to tell you. I've had some queer pains lately--new ones!" He caught
his breath.

"Why didn't you tell me, you young fool?"

"You had your own troubles, didn't you?" John spoke with difficulty. "But
I'll be all right, I guess! All I need is a few days off!"

Roger had pressed a button, and his stenographer came in.

"Call a taxi," he said sharply. "And, John, you go right over there and lie
down. I'm going to take you home at once!"

"I've got a better scheme," said John, setting his determined jaws. The
sweat was pouring down his cheeks. "It may be a week--but there's just a
chance it--may be a little worse than th