"It is croup," thought Greta. She closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and wrapped them about the child's neck. She stayed all that night at the cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could not be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. It had not yet taken hold of her that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy and a little feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he would be better in the morning. Oh, yes, he would soon be well again, and tearing up the flowers in the garden. Toward midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the breathing become quieter, and the whole nature seemed to sink. Mercy listened with her ear bent down at the child's mouth, and a smile of ineffable joy spread itself over her face. "Bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she said. Greta did not answer. "The 'puss' and the 'man' don't darken his little life so much now," continued Mercy, cheerily. "No, dear," said Greta, in as strong a voice as she could summon. "All will be well with my darling boy soon, will it not?" "Yes, dear," said Greta, with a struggle. Happily Mercy could not read the other answer in her face. Mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the child's nose, and was touching him lightly about the mouth. "Greta," she said in a startled whisper, "does he look pinched?" "A little," said Greta, quietly. "And his skin--is it cold and clammy?" "We must give him another hot flannel," said Greta. Mercy sat at the bedside, and said nothing for an hour. Then all at once, and in a strange, harsh voice, she said: "I wish God had not made Ralphie so winsome." Greta started at the words, but made no answer. The daylight came early. As the first gleams of gray light came in at the window, Greta turned to where Mercy sat in silence. It was a sad face that she saw in the mingled yellow light of the dying lamp and the gray of the dawn. Mercy spoke again. "Greta, do you remember what Mistress Branthet said when her baby died last back-end gone twelvemonth?" Greta looked up quickly at the bandaged eyes. "What?" she asked. "Well, Parson Christian tried to comfort her, and said, 'Your baby is now an angel in Paradise,' and she turned on him with 'Shaf on your angels--I want none on 'em--I want my little girl.'" Mercy's voice broke into a sob.