Once, suddenly, amid the noise of the elements, she fancies she hears a strange sound from the adjoining room, the room that she has turned into a night nursery, that her child may be as near her as possible. She sits up and listens; but all is still. Again she lies down, but a restless, troubled feeling is on her. Sleep seems impossible. She rises and puts on a loose white dressing-robe, and, softly opening the door of communication, steps into the nursery. A night-light is burning dimly, the fire in the grate throws a fitful blaze around. She moves swiftly to the little lace-curtained cot, and bends over the child. What is it she hears that blanches her face with terror, that strikes cold and chill to her heart? Her arms are round the little figure; a cry arouses the sleeping woman in her bed beside the little cot. She springs up and sees her mistress, and in an instant is by her side. Too well she knows the meaning of that hoarse, strange sound. The cold and cruel wind has done its work. In another moment the household is aroused. The stillness of the night is all one tumult of voices and feet. Lady Etwynde, startled by the noise, goes straight to Lauraine's room, and finds it untenanted; but there in the nursery, with a face white with despair, a vague, pitiful terror in the eyes that turn from the little figure in her arms to the pitying faces around, sits the poor young mother. The struggles for breath, the hoarse, horrible cry that once heard is never forgotten, tell Lady Etwynde their own tale. Some one has taken a horse and gone for a doctor. The usual remedies of hot bath and steam have been applied. They can only wait, wait in that agony of suspense which is the cruellest suffering of life. Weeping, frightened, the little crowd fill the room. The mother alone is dry-eyed and calm. Her voice from time to time wakes the silence with all the fond and tender words the baby ears have grown familiar with. Sometimes a quiver of agony passes over her face as she sees the terrible suffering, as the lovely star-like eyes gaze up at her in a wondering, imploring way, seeming to beseech help and ease from one who loves him so. The night wears on. The leaden-footed hours drag their way wearily towards the dawn. Slowly the wind dies away in sobbing sighs; slowly the silver streak of coming day paints all the black and lowering clouds that roll stormily aside. And then at last the doctor comes, and the little figure is taken from its mother's arms. Another hour goes on to join the rank of those so weighted with agony and fear. And with it goes on suspense; with it flickers the little life in those cruel spasms of pain; flickers more and more faintly, watched with hope that only fades into despair.