Her mother and father were out of town, and Marietta limited herself to telephoning frequent inquiries. She told 'Stashie to tell her sister she knew she would be only in the way, with two nurses in the house. Lydia made 'Stashie answer all the telephone calls. She felt that if she broke her silence, if she tried to speak--and then she could not bear to be out of the sight of the little figure with the flushed cheeks, moving her head back and forth on the pillow and gazing about with bright, unseeing eyes. As night came on, she began to give, in a voice not her own, little piteous cries of suffering, or strange delirious mockeries of her pretty laughter and quaint, unintelligible, prattling talk. Once, as the long, hot night stood still, the baby called out, quite clearly: "Mamma! Mamma!" It was the first time she had ever said it. Lydia sprang up and rushed toward the bed like an insane person, her arms outstretched, her eyes glittering. Dr. Melton did not forbid her to take up her child, but he said in a neutral tone, "It would be better for her to lie perfectly quiet." Lydia stopped short, shuddering. The doctor did not take his eyes from his little patient. After a moment the mother went slowly back to her seat. "Hand me the thermometer," said the doctor to the nurse. In the early morning came a telegram from Paul. "Wire me frequently baby's condition. Spare no expense in treatment." Lydia answered: "Ariadne slightly worse. Doctor says crisis in three days." This time she put in no extra information as to the baby's suffering, and her message was under ten words, like his own. She despatched him thereafter a bulletin every four or five hours. They ran mostly to the effect that Ariadne was about the same. The doctor came and went, the nurses relieved each other, the telephone rang for Marietta's inquiries, Flora Burgess called once a day to get the news from 'Stashie. Lydia was slave to the nurses, alert for the slightest service she could render them, divining, with a desperate intuition, their needs before they were formulated. 'Stashie was the only person who paid the least attention to her, 'Stashie the only phenomena to break in on the solitude that surrounded her like an illimitable plain. 'Stashie made her eat. 'Stashie saw to it that once or twice she lay down. 'Stashie combed her hair, and bathed her white face--most of all, 'Stashie went about with eyes that reflected faithfully the suffering in Lydia's own. She said very little, but as they passed, the two women sometimes exchanged brief words: "Niver you think it possible, Mis' Hollister!" "No," Lydia would answer resolutely; "it's not possible." But as the hours slowly filed past the doctor assured her bluntly that it would be quite possible. "There's a fighting chance," he said, "and nothing more." He added relentlessly, "If I hadn't been such a fool as to let you wean her--"