ms all right again now," said Wallace in a sharp whisper, "but
right after you left--my God, I thought she would choke!"

Martie watched the doctor's face, amazement and fright paralyzing every
sense but sight. The old man's tender, clever hands rested for a moment
on the little double-gown.

"Well, poor little girl!" he said, softly, after a moment of pulsing
silence. He straightened up, and looked at Martie. "Gone," he said
simply. "She died in her father's arms."

"Gone!" Martie echoed. The quiet word fell into a void of silence.
Father and mother stood transfixed, looking upon each other. Martie was
panting like a runner, Wallace seemed dazed. They stood so a long time.

Relief came first to Wallace; for as they laid the tiny form on the
bed, and arranged the shabby little gown about it, he suddenly fell
upon his knees, and flung one arm about his child and burst into bitter
crying. But Martie moved about, mute, unhearing, her mouth fallen a
little open, her breath still coming hard. She answered the doctor's
suggestions only after a moment's frowning concentration--what did he
say?

After a while he was gone, and Wallace was persuaded to go to bed
again, Teddy tucked in beside him. Then Martie lowered the light in
what had been the children's room, and knelt beside her dead.

The snow was still falling with a gentle, ticking sound against the
window. Muffled whistles sounded on the river; the night was so stilled
that the clanking of shovels and the noise of voices came clearly from
the car-tracks at the corner.

Hour after hour went by. Martie knelt on; she was not conscious of
grief or pain; she was not conscious of the world that would wake in
the morning, and go about its business, and of the bright sun that
would blaze out upon the snow. There was no world, no sun, no protest,
and no hope. There was only the question: Why?

In the soft flicker of the gaslight Margar lay in unearthly beauty, the
shadow of her dark eyelashes touching her cheek, a smile lingering on
her baby mouth. She had been such a happy baby; Martie had loved to
rumple and kiss the aureole of bright hair that framed the sleeping
face.

The old double-gown--with the middle button that did not match--Martie
had ironed only yesterday. She would not iron it again. The rag doll,
and the strings of spools, and the shabby high-chair where Margar sat
curling her little bare toes on summer mornings; these must vanish. The
little feet were s