The laugh grew louder. Her hand with its fingers extended and pointing, wavered toward the window. She tried to talk but the laughter in her throat prevented. She hung loosely in his arms, laughing and waving her hands. "The window," she gasped, "look out and see!" "We had better get her into bed," Levine whispered. Lindstrum nodded. But Doris pulled herself from his hold. She stumbled and fell to her knees before the window. The room was dark and the street lights threw a faint glare over her face. She knelt with her hands to her neck and her eyes swinging. "Look out!" cried Levine. Doris screamed. "The beast ... the beast!" She had thrown herself forward with the shriek but Lindstrum's hands had caught her. The window glass broke. The two men carried her into the bed. Her head fell back on the pillow. She lay with her eyes open. Lindstrum sat leaning over her. "Doris," he whispered. Her eyes regarded him without recognition. "It's happened," muttered Levine. Lindstrum's hand passed over her forehead and slipped down the loose hair. "The fever's gone," he said softly. "Yes," he repeated, "the fever's gone now." Mrs. Basine returned. Doris, her eyes open, was lying as if dead. Her mother rushed to the bed crying her name. She was breathing. The fever was gone. Her body was almost cool. "She was out of her head for a while," Lindstrum whispered. "Talk to me please, dearest." Doris sighed and looked around. They made no move as she sat up. She left the bed and returned from a closet with a wrap over her nightgown. They watched her until her eyes turned toward them--expressionless, dead eyes. Mrs. Basine clasped her hands together and trembled. "We must call the doctor at once," she whispered. She went to the telephone. Doris sat down in a chair near the window. Her head sank and she gazed out. The expressionless eyes grew clouded. Tears were coming out. She sat weeping without sound while her mother telephoned. "Something has happened to Doris," Mrs. Basine whispered into the telephone, "please hurry, something has happened to her...." "Good-bye, Doris," Lindstrum spoke. The white face of the girl remained without movement. She was staring out the window, a lifeless figure, weeping. He approached her and watched her tears. Outside, he walked with his head down, through the streets. "She knew it was going to happen," he murmured to himself, "and she wanted to see me again before it did." His heart felt heavy. Doris with her dead eyes weeping. Ah, a long sigh. Hard to remember things that had been. "Knock 'em over," he whispered aloud. "Make something ... make something." Deep inside him were hands that pantomimed despair. People in the streets. War was coming to them. "Huh," he said slowly, "they tore her heart out." Everybody knew him. Everybody knew the name Lindstrum. It was the name of a great poet. When he was dead Lindstrum would stay alive. "Huh," he whispered, "I don't know.... Sing to them. Yes...."