living-room and with her and a blanket, crept under her father's bed,
into the farthest corner where she lay wide-eyed until dawn. Some one
closed the door into the room then, and shortly, she fell asleep.

In three days, the like of which are the longest, the shortest days of
life, the house had returned to the remnant of its old routine. The
place had been fumigated. Lydia had placed in her bedroom everything
that had belonged to the baby, had locked the door and had moved
herself into Lizzie's room. Amos departed before dawn as usual with
his dinner pail, stumbling like an old man, over the road.

The quarantine sign was on the house and no one but the undertaker, the
doctor, Mrs. Norton and John Levine had been allowed to come to see the
stricken little family, excepting the minister. He, poor man, had
babies of his own, and had been nervous during the few short minutes of
the service.

Lydia and Lizzie put in the morning cleaning the cottage. Never since
they had lived in it had the little house been so spic and span. At
noon, they sat down to lunch in a splendor of cleanliness that made the
place seem stranger than ever to them both. Neither talked much. At
intervals, tears ran down old Lizzie's wrinkled cheeks and Lydia looked
at her wonderingly. Lydia had not shed a tear. But all the time her
cheeks were scarlet, her hands were cold and trembled and her stomach
ached.

"You must eat, childie. You haven't eat enough to keep a bird alive
since--since--"

There was a bang on the door, and Lizzie trundled over to open it.