Greta rose from her seat and put on her hat and cloak. She was hastening down the road while the charcoal-burner was still standing in the middle of the floor. When Greta reached the old charcoal-burner's cottage, the little one was lying in a drowsy state in Mercy's arms. Its breathing seemed difficult; sometimes it started in terror; it was feverish and suffered thirst. The mother's wistful face was bent down on it with an indescribable expression. There were only the trembling lips to tell of the sharp struggle that was going on within. But the yearning for a sight of the little flushed countenance, the tearless appeal for but one glimpse of the drowsy little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's heart against the fate that made the child she had suckled at her breast a stranger, whose very features she might not know--all this was written in that blind face. "Is he pale?" said Mercy. "Is he sleeping? He does not talk now, but only starts and cries, and sometimes coughs." "When did this begin?" asked Greta. "Toward four o'clock. He had been playing, and I noticed that he breathed heavily, and then he came to me to be nursed. Is he awake now? Listen." The little one in its restless drowsiness was muttering faintly, "Man--go-on--batter--toas'." "The darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he?" said Mercy. Then there was a ringing, brassy cough. "It is croup," thought Greta. She closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and wrapped them about the child's neck. She stayed all that night at the cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could not be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. It had not yet taken hold of her that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy and a little feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he would be better in the morning. Oh, yes, he would soon be well again, and tearing up the flowers in the garden. Toward midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the breathing became quieter, and the whole nature seemed to sink. Mercy listened with her ear bent down at the child's mouth, and a smile of ineffable joy spread itself over her face. "Bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she said. Greta did not answer. "The 'puss' and the 'man' don't darken his little life so much now," continued Mercy cheerily. "No, dear," said Greta, in as strong a voice as she could summon. "All will be well with my darling boy soon, will it not?" "Yes, dear," said Greta, with a struggle. Happily Mercy could not read the other answer in her face. Mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the child's nose, and was touching him lightly about the mouth. "Greta," she said in a startled whisper, "does he look pinched?" "A little," said Greta quietly. "And his skin--is it cold and clammy?" "We must give him another hot flannel," said Greta.