"Oh, Alice, could I get Warren, do you think? They mustn't--it's too cruel! He's only a baby, he doesn't understand! Better a thousand times to let him go--tell them so! Get George--tell him I say so!" "Rachael, it's terrible," said Alice, who was crying hard, "b-b-but they must think there is a chance, dear. We couldn't interrupt them now. He would see you--there, he's quiet again. That may be all!" But it was not the end for many hours. The women on the stairs, and the sobbing maids in the diningroom, hoped and despaired, and grew faint and sick themselves as the merciless work went on. Once George came out of the room for a few minutes, with a face flaked with white, and his surgeon's gown crumpled, wet with water and stained here and there a terrible red. He did not speak to either woman, and in answer to Alice's breath of interrogation merely shook his head. At four o'clock Warren himself came to the door. Rachael sprang to her feet, was close to him in a second. The sight of him, his gown, his hands, his dreadful face, turned Alice faint, but Rachael's voice was steady. "What is it?" "We are nearly done. Nearly done," Warren said. "I can't tell yet--nobody can. But I must finish it. Do you think you could--he keeps asking for you. I am sorry to ask you--" "Hold him?" Rachael's voice of agony said. "Yes, I could do that. I--I have been wanting to!" "No--there is no necessity for that. He is on the table. But if he could see you. It is the very end of our work," he answered. "It may be that he can't--you must be ready for that." "I am ready," she said. A second later she was in the room with the child. She saw nothing but Derry, his little body beneath the sheet rigidly strapped to the table. The group gave place, and Rachael stood beside him. His beautiful baby eyes, wild with terror and agony, found her; she bent over him, and laid her fingers on his wet little forehead. He wanted his mother to take him away, he had been calling her--hadn't she heard him? Please, please, not to let anyone touch him again! Rachael summoned a desperate courage. She spoke to him, she could even smile. Did he remember the swing--yes, but he didn't remember Mother bringing him all the way up, so that Daddy and Uncle George-- His brave eyes were fixed on hers. He was trying to remember, trying to answer her smile, trying to think of other things than the recommencing pain. No use. The hoarse, terrible little screams began again. His little hand writhed in hers. "Mother--PLEASE--will you make them stop?" Rachael was breathing deep, her own forehead was wet. She knew the child's strength was gone. "Just a little more, dearest," she said, white lipped; eyes full of agonized appeal turned to George. "Doctor--" One of the nurses, her hand on his pulse, said softly. George Valentine looked up. Rachael's apprehensive glance questioned them both. But Warren Gregory did not falter, did not even glance away from his own hands.