Morton had not come yet, but Norah discovering a pool of blood under the little bare shoulder, lifted him quickly into the great white bath-tub and turned on the warm water. There was no use wasting time, and getting blood on white tiles that she would have to scrub. She was not unkind but she hated dirt, and partly supporting the child with one arm she applied herself to scrubbing him as vigorously as possible with the other hand. The shock of the water, not being very warm at first, brought returning consciousness to the boy for a moment, in one long shuddering sigh. The eyelashes trembled for an instant on the white cheeks, and his eyes opened; gazed dazedly, then wildly, on the strange surroundings, the water, and the vigorous Irish woman who had him in her power. He threw his arms up with a struggling motion, gasped as if with sudden pain and lost consciousness again, relaxing once more into the strong red arm that held him. It was just at this critical moment that Morton entered the bath-room. Morton was a trim, apple-cheeked Scotch woman of about thirty years, with neat yellow-brown hair coiled on the top of her head, a cheerful tilt to her freckled nose, and eyes so blue that in company with her rosy cheeks one thought at once of a flag. Heather and integrity exhaled from her very being, flamed from her cheeks, spoke from her loyal, stubborn chin, and looked from her trustworthy eyes. She had been with the bank president’s baby ever since the little star-eyed creature came into the world. “Och! look ye at the poor wee’un!” she exclaimed. “Ye’re hurtin’ him, Norah! Ye shouldn’t have bathed him the noo! Ye should’ve waited the docther’s comin’. Ye’ll mebbe kin kill him.” “Ach! Get out with yer soft talk!” said Norah, scrubbing the more vigorously. “Did yez suppose I’ll be afther havin’ all this filth in the nice clean sheets? Get ye to work an’ he’p me. Do ye hold ’im while I schrub!” She shifted the boy into the gentler arm’s of the nurse, and went to splashing all the harder. Then suddenly, before the nurse could protest, she had dashed a lot of foamy suds on the golden head and was scrubbing that with all her might. “Och, Norah!” cried the nurse in alarm. “You shouldn’t a done that! Ye’ll surely kill the bairn. Look at his poor wee shoulder a bleedin’, and his little face so white an’ still. Have ye no mercy at all, Norah? Rinse off that suds at once, an’ dry him softly. What’ll the docther be sayin’ to ye fer all this I can’t think. There, my poor bairnie,” she crooned to the child, softly drawing him closer as though he were conscious,— “There, there my bairnie, it’ll soon be over. It’ll be all right in just a minute, poor wee b’y! Poor wee b’y! There! There—” But Norah did her perfect work, and made the little lean body glistening white as polished marble, while the heavy hair hung limp like pale golden silk.