"Go over to my house and ask my wife to give you my battery!" commanded
the doctor in a low growl.

Courtland was off again, glad of something to do. He carried the memory
of the doctor's grizzled face lying on the little bared breast of the
child, listening for the heart-beats, and the beautiful girl's anguish
as she stood above them. He pushed aside the curious throng that had
gathered around the door and were looking up the stairs, whispering
dolefully and shaking heads:

"An' he was so purty, and so cheery, bless his heart!" wailed one woman.
"He always had his bit of a word an' a smile!"

"Aw! Them ottymobbeels!" he heard another murmur. "Ridin' along in
their glory! They'll be a day o' reckonin' fer them rich folks what
rides in 'em! They'll hev to walk! They may even have to lie abed an'
hev their wages get behind!"

The whole weight of the sorrow of the world seemed suddenly pressing
upon Courtland's heart. How had he been thus unexpectedly taken out of
the pleasant monotony of the university and whirled into this vortex of
anguish! Why had it been? Was it just happen that he should have been
the one to have gone to the old woman and made her toast, and then been
called upon to pray, instead of Tennelly or Bill Ward or any of the
other fellows? And after that was it again just coincidence that he
should have happened to stand at that corner at that particular moment
and been one to participate in this later tragedy? Oh, the beautiful
face of the suffering girl! Fear and sorrow and suffering and death
everywhere! Wittemore hurrying to his dying mother! The old woman lying