He sat forward in his chair, his hands folded around his knee, and looked at it. He was trying to picture the Sidney of the photograph in his old life--trying to find a place for her. But it was difficult. There had been few women in his old life. His mother had died many years before. There had been women who had cared for him, but he put them impatiently out of his mind. Then the bell rang. Christine was moving about below. He could hear her quick steps. Almost before he had heaved his long legs out of the chair, she was tapping at his door outside. “It's Mrs. Rosenfeld. She says she wants to see you.” He went down the stairs. Mrs. Rosenfeld was standing in the lower hall, a shawl about her shoulders. Her face was white and drawn above it. “I've had word to go to the hospital,” she said. “I thought maybe you'd go with me. It seems as if I can't stand it alone. Oh, Johnny, Johnny!” “Where's Palmer?” K. demanded of Christine. “He's not in yet.” “Are you afraid to stay in the house alone?” “No; please go.” He ran up the staircase to his room and flung on some clothing. In the lower hall, Mrs. Rosenfeld's sobs had become low moans; Christine stood helplessly over her. “I am terribly sorry,” she said--“terribly sorry! When I think whose fault all this is!” Mrs. Rosenfeld put out a work-hardened hand and caught Christine's fingers. “Never mind that,” she said. “You didn't do it. I guess you and I understand each other. Only pray God you never have a child.” K. never forgot the scene in the small emergency ward to which Johnny had been taken. Under the white lights his boyish figure looked strangely long. There was a group around the bed--Max Wilson, two or three internes, the night nurse on duty, and the Head. Sitting just inside the door on a straight chair was Sidney--such a Sidney as he never had seen before, her face colorless, her eyes wide and unseeing, her hands clenched in her lap. When he stood beside her, she did not move or look up. The group around the bed had parted to admit Mrs. Rosenfeld, and closed again. Only Sidney and K. remained by the door, isolated, alone. “You must not take it like that, dear. It's sad, of course. But, after all, in that condition--” It was her first knowledge that he was there. But she did not turn. “They say I poisoned him.” Her voice was dreary, inflectionless. “You--what?” “They say I gave him the wrong medicine; that he's dying; that I murdered him.” She shivered. K. touched her hands. They were ice-cold. “Tell me about it.” “There is nothing to tell. I came on duty at six o'clock and gave the medicines. When the night nurse came on at seven, everything was all right. The medicine-tray was just as it should be. Johnny was asleep. I went to say good-night to him and he--he was asleep. I didn't give him anything but what was on the tray,” she finished piteously. “I looked at the label; I always look.”