“Oh, but I'm glad you've come, Stephen. I was getting worried. I was afraid maybe you didn't get the letter. It's black dark outside, isn't it?” and she glanced at the cheap clock on the mantel behind her. “Come in, the kettle was boiling over when I heard you. I'll talk to you in a minute.” He followed with only a pressure of her hand, and, without a word of greeting, seated himself near a table. In the same quiet, silent way he watched her as she busied herself about the apartment, lifting the kettle from the stove, adjusting the wick of the lamp which had begun to smoke from the draft of the open door, taking from a shelf two cups and saucers and from a tin bread box a loaf and some crackers. When, in one of her journeys to and fro, she passed where the light of the lamp fell full upon her round face, framed in its white cap and long strings, he gave a slight start. There were dark circles below her eyes and heavy lines near the corners of her mouth--signs he had not seen since the month she had spent in the Marine Hospital when the plague was stamped out. He noticed, too, that her robust figure, with its broad shoulders and capacious bosom, restful pillow to many a new-born baby, seemed shrunken--not in weight, but in its spring, as if all her alertness (she was under fifty) had oozed out. It was only when she had completed her labors and taken a chair beside him, her soft, nursing hand covering his own, that his mind reverted to the tragedy which had brought him to her side. Even then, although she sat with her face turned toward his, her eyes reading his own, some moments passed before either of them spoke. At last, in a wondering, dazed way, she exclaimed: “Have you, in all your life, Stephen, ever heard anything like it?” Carlin shook his head. The letter had given him the facts, and no additional details could alter the situation. It was as if a dead body were lying in the next room awaiting interment; when the time came he would step in and look at it, ask the hour of burial, and step out again. “I came as soon as I'd read your letter,” he said slowly examining one by one his rough fingers bunched together in his lap. “We got chuck-a-block on Second Avenue or I'd have been here before. Why didn't you let me know sooner?” As he spoke he shifted his gaze to the wrinkles in her throat--a new anxiety rising as he noticed how many more had gathered since he saw her last. “She wouldn't have it, and I want to tell you that you've got to be careful, as it is. And mind you don't speak too sudden to her.” In answer he craned his head as if to see around the jamb of the door leading into the smaller room and, lowering his voice, whispered: “Is she here now?” “No, but she will be in a few minutes; she's often late, she waits until it's dark.” “How long has she been here with you?” “About two weeks.” “Two weeks! You didn't tell me that.” “She wouldn't let me. She is having trouble enough and I have to do pretty much as she wants.”