"Hangs my helpless soul on thee," says the deep passionate voice, and the eyes say things even more tender to eyes that falter only because they are faint with joy. In the short interval the moving finger of Mrs. Nesbit goes up, and then comes a rattling of the great front door. A moment later it is opened and the flushed face of Grant Adams is seen. He is collarless, and untidy; he rushes into the room crying, "O, doctor--doctor, come--our baby--he is choking." The youth sees Margaret, and with passion cries: "Kenyon--Kenyon--the baby, he is dying; for God's sake--Mag, where is the Doctor?" In an instant the little figure of the Doctor is in the room. He stares at the red-faced boy, and quick as a flash he sees the open mouth, the dazed, gaping eyes, the graying face of Margaret as she leans heavily upon George Brotherton. In another instant the Doctor sees her rally, grapple with herself, bring back the slow color as if by main strength, and smile a hard forced smile, as the boy stands in impotent anguish before them. "I have the spring wagon here, Doctor--hurry--hurry please," expostulates the youth, as the Doctor climbs into his overcoat, and then looking at Margaret the boy exclaims wildly--"Wouldn't you like to go, too, Maggie? Wouldn't you?" She has hold of herself now and replies: "No, Grant, I don't think your mother will need me," but she almost loses her grip as she asks weakly, "Do you?" In another second they are gone, the boy and the Doctor, out into the night, and the horse's hoofs, clattering fainter and fainter as they hurry down the road, bring to her the sound of a little heart beating fainter and fainter, and she holds on to her soul with a hard hand. Before long Margaret Mueller and Henry Fenn are alone in a buggy driving to Prospect township. She sees above her on the hill the lights in the great house of her desire. And she knows that down in the valley where shimmers a single light is a little body choking for breath, fighting for life. "Hangs my helpless soul on thee," swirls through her brain, and she is cold--very cold, and sits aloof and will not talk, cannot talk. Ever the patter of the horse's feet in the valley is borne upward by the wind, and she feels in her soul the faltering of a little heart. She dares not hope that it will start up again; she cannot bear the fear that it will stop. So she leaves the man who knew her inmost soul but an hour ago; hardly a word she speaks at parting; hardly she turns to him as she slips into the house, cold and shivering with the sound of every hoof-beat on the road in the night, bringing her back to the helpless soul fluttering in the little body that once she warmed in hers.