At the hospital Sam walked up and down in the corridor through the swinging doors at the end of which she had been taken. Every vestige of regret for the trying months now lying behind had passed, and he paced up and down the corridor feeling that he had come to one of those huge moments when a man’s brain, his grasp of affairs, his hopes and plans for the future, all of the little details and trivialities of his life, halt, and he waits anxious, breathless, expectant. He looked at a little clock on a table at the end of the corridor, half expecting it to stop also and wait with him. His marriage hour that had seemed so big and vital seemed now, in the quiet corridor, with the stone floor and the silent white-clad, rubber-shod nurses passing up and down and in the presence of this greater event, to have shrunk enormously. He walked up and down peering at the clock, looking at the swinging door and biting at the stem of his empty pipe. And then through the swinging door came Grover. “We can get the child, Sam, but to get it we shall have to take a chance with her. Do you want to do that? Do not wait. Decide.” Sam sprang past him toward the door. “You bungler,” he cried, and his voice rang through the long quiet corridor. “You do not know what this means. Let me go.” Doctor Grover, catching him by the arm, swung him about. The two men stood facing each other. “You stay here,” said the doctor, his voice remaining quiet and firm; “I will attend to things. Your going in there would be pure folly now. Now answer me--do you want to take the chance?” “No! No!” Sam shouted. “No! I want her--Sue--alive and well, back through that door.” A cold gleam came into his eyes and he shook his fist before the doctor’s face. “Do not try deceiving me about this. By God, I will----” Turning, Doctor Grover ran back through the swinging door leaving Sam staring blankly at his back. A nurse, one whom he had seen in Doctor Grover’s office, came out of the door and taking his arm, walked beside him up and down the corridor. Sam put his arm around her shoulder and talked. An illusion that it was necessary to comfort her came to him. “Do not worry,” he said. “She will be all right. Grover will take care of her. Nothing can happen to little Sue.” The nurse, a small, sweet-faced, Scotch woman, who knew and admired Sue, wept. Some quality in his voice had touched the woman in her and the tears ran in a little stream down her cheeks. Sam continued talking, the woman’s tears helping him to regain his grip upon himself. “My mother is dead,” he said, an old sorrow revisiting him. “I wish that you, like Mary Underwood, would be a new mother to me.”