losed, its tiny fingers crisped against her breast.
While Mrs. Hughs poured forth her tale, Martin stood with his eyes still
fixed on the baby. It could not be gathered from his face what he was
thinking, but now and then he moved his jaw, as though he were suffering
from toothache. In truth, by the look of Mrs. Hughs and her baby, his
recipe did not seem to have achieved conspicuous success. He turned away
at last from the trembling, nerveless figure of the seamstress, and went
to the window. Two pale hyacinth plants stood on the inner edge; their
perfume penetrated through the other savours of the room--and very
strange they looked, those twin, starved children of the light and air.

"These are new," he said.

"Yes, sir," murmured Mrs. Hughs. "I brought them upstairs. I didn't like
to see the poor things left to die."

From the bitter accent of these words Martin understood that they had
been the little model's.

"Put them outside," he said; "they'll never live in here. They want
watering, too. Where are your saucers?"

Mrs. Hughs laid the baby down, and, going to the cupboard where all the
household gods were kept, brought out two old, dirty saucers. Martin
raised the plants, and as he held them, from one close, yellow petal
there rose up a tiny caterpillar. It reared a green, transparent body,
feeling its way to a new resting-place. The little writhing shape
seemed, like the wonder and the mystery of life, to mock the young
doctor, who watched it with eyebrows raised, having no hand at liberty
to remove it from the plant.

"She came from the country. There's plenty of men there for her!"

Martin put the plants down, and turned round to the seamstress.

"Look here!" he said, "it's no good crying over spilt milk. What you've
got to do is to set to and get some work."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't say it in that sort of way," said Martin; "you must rise to the
occasion."

"Yes, sir."

"You want a tonic. Take this half-crown, and get in a dozen pints of
stout, and drink one every day."

And again Mrs. Hughs said, "Yes, sir."

"And about that baby."

Motionless, where it had been placed against the footrail of the bed,
the baby sat with its black eyes closed. The small grey face was curled
down on the bundle of its garments.

"It's a silent gentleman," Martin muttered.

"It never was a one to cry," said Mrs. Hughs.

"That's lucky, anyway. When did you feed it last?"

Mrs. Hughs did not reply at first. "Ab