morrow
ran warmly in his veins, and the children soothed him. The little boy
especially, who was just Beatty's age, excited in him a number of
practical curiosities. How about the last teeth? He actually inserted a
coaxing and inquiring finger, the babe gravely suffering it. Any trouble
with them? Beatty had once been very ill with hers, at Philadelphia,
mostly caused, however, by some beastly, indigestible food that the
nurse had let her have. And they allowed her to sit up much too late.
Didn't Mrs. French think seven o'clock was late enough for any child not
yet four? One couldn't say that Beatty was a very robust child, but
healthy--oh yes, healthy!--none of your sickly, rickety little things.

The curtains had been closed. The street children, the electric light
outside, were no longer visible. Roger had begun to talk of departure,
the baby had fallen fast asleep in her mother's arms, when there was
another loud ring at the front door.

French, who was expecting the headmaster of his church schools, gathered
up some papers and left the room. His wife, startled by what seemed an
exclamation from him in the hall outside, raised her head a moment to
listen; but the sound of voices--surely a woman's voice?--died abruptly
away, and the door of the dining-room closed. Roger heard nothing; he
was laughing and crooning over the boy.

"The Pobble that lost his toes
Had once as many as we."

The door opened. Herbert stood on the threshold beckoning to her. She
rose in terror, the child in her arms, and went out to him. In a minute
she reappeared in the doorway, her face ashen-white, and called to the
little boy. He ran to her, and Roger rose, looking for the hat he had
put down on entering.

Then French came in, and behind him a lady in black, dishevelled, bathed
in tears. The vicar hung back. Roger turned in astonishment.

"Mother! You here? Mother!"--he hurried to her--"what's the matter?"

She tottered toward him with outstretched hands.

"Oh Roger, Roger!"

His name died away in a wail as she clasped him.

"What is it, mother?"

"It's Beatty--my son!--my darling Roger!" She put up her hands
piteously, bending his head down to her. "It's a cable from Washington,
from that woman, Mrs. Verrier. They did everything, Roger--it was only
three days--and hopeless always. Yesterday convulsion came on--and this
morning----" Her head dropped against her son's breast as her voice
failed her. He put her roughly