he went out to obey.

"Now, Mrs. Paxton, details, please," he said, making tests as he
listened.

Jane told him quietly. The nurse returned saying the doctor would come
at once. He asked her many questions, and before she had finished
answering, the other doctor had arrived. A consultation followed.

"We may have to resort to a tube, but in the meantime, we'll try
something else," Doctor Grant explained to Jane and Jerry. "Suppose you
go out on the balcony for a little; we'll call you if there is any
change. So many of us are disturbing to him, I think."

"All right," said Jerry, laying his hand on Jane's arm.

"Is there any hope, Doctor Grant?" Jane asked.

"He's a sick baby, but I've had them worse off than that. You go out
there and make up your mind that Baby is going to get well," he
answered.

Jerry led her out into the semi-darkness of the upper veranda.

"I can't sit still, Jerry; let's walk."

"All right."

His hand grasped her forearm, slipped through, until it found her hand.
She clung to him with a force that hurt. In silence they walked up and
down, up and down. When they passed the windows and the light struck
across Jane's face, Jerry thought he had never seen such anguish in a
human countenance. He could not bear to look, it was as if he were
gazing into something not intended for eyes to see--something primal,
savage, terrible which only God could endure. He knew she was on the
rack, yet he could not comfort her. He knew that his own grief would be
acute if his son was taken away, but he foresaw it would be nothing to
the agony of this mother. "Oh, Mary pity, women----" came to his mind,
with an overwhelming realization of the pathos of life. This groping of
human creatures toward--what? All bound together in strange, even
accidental, relationship; held in bondage by affections, instincts,
passions; fighting free--going on--but where? Bobs's terrible sculpture
of "Woman" stood out before him, and he understood. He looked into the
hearts and souls of Bobs, of Jane, even of Althea and himself, in this
sacrament of emotion he was drinking.

Jane's consciousness was like the shifting, fever-haunted dreams of a
drug fiend. She was numb, like a lump of stone. She saw things tugging
at her--devils. They burned her with torches, but she did not feel
anything but this ache of loss. A figure hovered, gray,
indistinguishable; she thought it was remorse, or perhaps death,
waiting. Suddenly it looked a