For answer Sheila bent down lower and picked up the writhing mass. With a firm hand she braced it against her shoulder, patting it gently and swaying her body rhythmically to the patting. "Some eyes and some temper!" laughed Sheila. "Where's the mother?" The screaming brought the corridor nurse to the door. "Where's the mother?" Sheila repeated. The corridor nurse pointed to the strewn luggage and gave a contemptuous shrug. "Gone down to dinner looking like a bird of paradise. She said if the baby cried I was to stir up some of that milk from that can, mix it with water from that faucet, put it in that bottle, and feed it to him." Words failed to convey the outraged disgust in her voice. The milk indicated was condensed milk in a half-emptied can; the bottle was the regulation kind for babies and as filthy as dirty glass could look. Sheila and Doctor Fuller exchanged glances. "Plenty of fight in the little beggar or he wouldn't be outlasting--" The doctor swallowed the remainder of the sentence, cut short by a startled look on Sheila's face. The screams had stopped a minute before, and Sheila believed the atom had dropped asleep. But instead of feeling the tiny body relax as a sleeping baby's will, it was growing slowly rigid. With this realization she strode to the bed and put the atom down. Before their eyes the body stiffened, while the head rolled slowly from side to side and under the half-closed lids the eyeballs rolled with it. "Convulsions!" announced the corridor nurse, with an anxious look toward the door. Then, as a bell tinkled, she voiced her relief in a quick breath. "That's sixty-one. I'm hiking--" "No, you don't!" The doctor jerked her back; he wanted to shake her. "You'll hustle some hot water for us, and then you'll stand by to hustle some more. See?" He was shedding all unnecessary clothing as he spoke, and Sheila was peeling the atom free of shirt and roundabout as fast as skilled fingers could move. It is a wonderful thing to watch the fight between human skill and death for the life of a baby. So little it takes to swing the victory either way, so close does it border on the miraculous, that few can stand and see without feeling the silent, invisible presence of the Nazarene. A life thus saved seems to gather unto itself a special significance and value for those who have fought for it and those who receive it again. It creates new feelings and a clearer vision in blind, unthinking motherhood; it awakens to a vital response hitherto dormant fatherhood. And even the callous outsider becomes exalted with the wonder and closeness of that unseen presence.