As the brown atom writhed from one convulsion into another, Sheila and the old doctor worked with compressed lips and almost suspended breath; they worked like a single mind supplied with twice the usual amount of auxiliaries. They saw, without acknowledging it, the gorgeous, tropical figure that came and stood half-way between the door and the bed; lips carmined, throat and cheeks heavy with powder, jewels covering ears, neck, fingers, and wrists, she looked absurdly unreal beside the nurse in her uniform and the doctor in his shirt-sleeves. Occasionally Sheila glanced at her. If they won, would the mother care? The question came back to her consciousness again and again. In her own experience she knew how often the thing one called motherhood would come into actual existence after a struggle like this when birth itself had failed to accomplish anything but a physical obligation. Believing this, Sheila fought the harder. After an hour the convulsions subsided. A few more drops of brandy were poured down the tiny throat, and slowly the heart took up its regulation work. Sheila wrapped the atom in a blanket, put it back on the bed, and beckoned to the mother. Curiosity seemed to be the one governing emotion of the señora. She looked without any trace of grief, and, having looked, she spoke impassively: "I theenk eet dead. Yes?" Doctor Fuller, with perspiration pouring from him, transfixed her with a stare. "No! That baby's going to get well now, and you're going to let Miss O'Leary teach you how to take proper care of it. Understand?" Then clapping his fellow-fighter on the back, he beamed down upon her. "Leerie, you're one grand soldier!" The monotone of the gorgeous señora broke up any response Sheila might have given. "I theenk eet die, all the same," came the impassive voice. "The _padre_ on the ship make it all ready for die--I theenk yes pret' soon." "No!" The doctor fairly thundered it forth. She stooped and pulled away a fold of the blanket with the tips of her fingers. "Eet look ver' ugly--like eet die. I theenk--all the same." The doctor caught up his cast-off clothing and flung himself out of the room. Sheila watched him go, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Strange! He had so evidently reached the end of his self-control, optimism, and patience, while she was just beginning to find hers. In the sweep of a second things looked wonderfully clear and hopeful. She thought she could understand what was in the mind and heart of the señora; what was more significant, she thought she could understand the reason for it. And what you can understand you can cope with. She watched the señora searching in this trunk and that; she saw her jerk forth a diminutive dress of embroidery and fluted lace; while she thought the whole thing through to the finish and smiled one of her old inscrutable smiles. "Pret' dress," said the señora. "Plent' lace and reebon. You put on for bury eet--I go find _padre_."