For a few moments she seemed easier, murmuring her thanks. "Your maw," she said, opening her eyes, "how she must love you." "I have no mother," he said huskily "--not in this world." "Your woman, then," she said, breathing the words out with labor "--every man has his woman." He made no answer. Under the touch of his cool hand she seemed for a time to grow quiet. But the fever was burning higher in her veins, and soon she began to rock her head and utter incoherent words. Then she opened her eyes again. "I'm skeered," she said. "I'm awful skeered. I hain't done nobody no harm--but I ain't never been religious." "Don't be afraid," he said huskily. "What is there to fear?" "Hell--hell," she moaned, "I've heerd it preached." Abe Lincoln started to say something reassuring, but again her mind was wandering. When she spoke now, it was of the baby lying on the back of the bed. After opening her eyes and steadying them, she half moaned, "He's hungry, the fever's dried me up--can you feed the baby? There's milk--there's milk----" She did not finish the sentence. It seemed hard for her to speak. "I'll find the milk and feed the baby. Don't worry," and he brushed her hot arms and hands and forehead with his big, wet hands. Again she sank back into that restless drowsiness broken by moans and incoherent mutterings. Sometimes there was a sharp outcry, and always the labored breathing, growing ever faster and faster. Abe Lincoln went to the door and looked anxiously up at the sun, and from the sun, down the roadway. When he returned to the bed the woman wanted to speak again. She opened her eyes. At first there was only a glassy stare, but with an effort she gathered her vision and, fixing her eyes on the homely face by her side, she said with words that seemed beaten out by some raging inward force, "Abe Linkum, kin you pray?" "Yes," he answered without hesitation, "what's prayer but callin' on God when there ain't no one else can help?--yes." "Pray," she pleaded--"kneel down and pray for me--I'm--burnin' up." The young man knelt beside the bed. The woman reached out and clutched him. He took her burning hand in his. By its pressure he knew that she was hearing what he said, as in a few simple words he brought to the attention of the Father the needs of a helpless and suffering child. When he arose, the expression in the shining eyes told him the woman was still conscious. A moment she looked into his face. Then she said: "Tain't nothin' to be skeered of--is ther'--I ain't skeered no more--God, He won't let them git me and carry me to hell--God--God----" then the intelligent light passed and the fitful fire of consuming fever took its place. The end was at hand. Anxiously Abe Lincoln looked up the roadway, praying in his heart for a sight of Dr. Allen. The woman was raving wildly, and before another ten minutes had gone, life had left her body.