In the evening, when he came in to dinner, he received an urgent message from Mrs. Ryder, which had been sent in the morning and which he had missed by being absent from luncheon. Her child had died suddenly during the night from an attack of croup. Without removing his coat, he turned and started to her at once, his heart torn by the thought of her suffering. As he ascended the steps the door was opened by Ryder, who came out and grasped his hand, speaking hurriedly, with a slight huskiness in his voice. "She has been expecting you," he said, leading him into the hall. "Come up to her immediately. I can do nothing with her. My God! I would have given my right hand to have spared her this." The sincerity in his voice rang true, and there were circles of red about his eyes. They went up-stairs, and Ryder opened the door of the nursery, and, motioning him inside, closed it softly after him. The room was faintly lighted, the chill curtain of falling snow veiling the windows. On the little bed, where he had seen it sleeping several months ago, the child was lying, its flaxen curls massed upon the embroidered pillow; but the flush of health on the little face had given place to a waxen pallor, and the tiny hands that had tossed restlessly in sleep were still beneath white rose-buds. A faint odor of medicine clung about the room, but the disorder of dying had been succeeded by the order of death. Mrs. Ryder, sitting near the window, her profile dark against the storm, turned her heavy eyes upon him, and then, rising, came towards him. He caught her extended hands and held them firmly in his own. At that instant the past seemed predominant over the present--and the grief more his own than another's. "You have come at last," she said. "Help me. You must help me. I cannot live unless you do. Give me some comfort--anything!" His face was almost as haggard as her own. "What would comfort you?" he asked. She turned from him towards the little bed, and, falling on her knees beside it, burst into passionate weeping. "It was all I had!" she cried. "All I had! O God! How cruel!" He laid his hand upon her shoulder, not to stay her tears, but to suggest sympathy. Beyond her the sweet, grave face of the dead child lay wreathed in rose-buds. At his touch she rose and faced him. "Tell me that I shall see him again!" she cried. "Tell me that he is not dead--that he is somewhere--somewhere! Tell me that God is just!" His lips were blue, and he put up his hand imploring mercy; then he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. She clung to him, sobbing. "Pray to God for me," she said. He staggered for a moment beneath her touch. Then he knelt with her beside the little bed and prayed. When he walked home through the storm an hour later he reeled like a drunken man, and, despite the cold, his flesh was on fire.