forehead, down from his cheeks. He became white as death itself.

After a little he tried to speak. I do not know what he meant to say.
But what he did was to repeat--as though he had not heard her words--the
question which he had flung at her in the beginning. He said huskily:
"Where is the boy?"

She looked toward the bed and Hazen looked that way; and then he went
across to the bed with uncertain little steps. I followed him. I saw the
little twisted body there. The woman had been keeping it warm with her
own body. It must have been in her arms when we came in. The tumbled
coverings, the crushed pillows spoke mutely of a ferocious intensity of
grief.

Hazen looked down at the little body. He made no move to touch it, but I
heard him whisper to himself: "Fine boy."

After a while he looked at the woman. She seemed to feel an accusation
in his eyes. She said: "I did all I could."

He asked "What was it?"

I had it in me--though I had reason enough to despise the little man--to
pity Hazen Kinch.

"He coughed," said the woman. "I knew it was croup. You know I asked you
to get the medicine--ipecac. You said no matter--no need--and you had
gone."

She looked out of the window.