. He durst not turn
the handle; the beating of his heart shook him in every limb. The door
opened, and the nurse showed her face. A hurried whisper; the baby had
died two hours ago, in convulsions.

Alma's voice sounded again.

'Who is that?--Harvey--oh, come, come to me! My little baby is dead!'

He sat alone with her for an hour. He scarcely knew her for his wife,
so unlike herself had she become under the stress of passionate woe;
her face drawn in anguish, yet illumined as he had never seen it; her
voice moving on a range of notes which it had never sounded. The little
body lay pressed against her bosom; she would not let it be taken from
her. Consolation was idle. Harvey tried to speak the thought which was
his first and last as he looked at the still, waxen face; the thought
of thankfulness, that this poor feeble little being was saved from
life; but he feared to seem unfeeling. Alma could not yet be comforted.
The sight of the last pitiful struggles had pierced her to the heart;
she told of it over and over again, in words and tones profoundly
touching.

The doctor had been here, and would return in the evening. It was Alma
now who had to be cared for; her state might easily become dangerous.

When Harvey went downstairs again, he met Hughie and his nurse in the
hall. The little boy ran to him.

'Mayn't I come to you, Father? Louie says I mustn't come.'

'Yes, yes; come, dear.'

In the library he sat down, and took Hughie upon his knee, and pressed
the soft little cheek against his own. Without mention of baby, the
child asked at once if his father would not read to him as usual.

'I don't think I can tonight, Hughie.'

'Why not, Father? Because baby is dead?'

'Yes. And Mother is very poorly. I must go upstairs again soon.'

'Is Mother going to be dead?' asked the child, with curiosity rather
than fear.

'No! No!'

'But--but if mother went there, she could fetch baby back again.'

'Went where?'

Hughie made a vague upward gesture.

'Louie says baby is gone up into the sky.'

Perhaps it was best so. What else can one say to a little child of four
years old? Harvey Rolfe had no choice but to repeat what seemed good to
Louie the nursemaid. But he could refrain from saying more.

Alma was in a fever by night-time. There followed days and days of
misery; any one hour of which, as Rolfe told himself, outbalanced all
the good and joy that can at best be hoped for in threescore years and
ten. Bu