Maria put one slim little foot out of bed. "Oh, father," she said,
"is mother sick?"

"Yes, she is very sick," replied her father. His voice sounded almost
savage. It was as if he were furious with his wife for being ill,
furious with Maria, with life, and death itself. In reality he was
torn almost to madness with anxiety. "Slip on something so you won't
catch cold," said he, in his irritated voice. "I don't want another
one down."

Maria ran to her closet and pulled out a little pink wrapper. "Oh,
father, is mother very sick?" she whispered again.

"Yes, she is very sick. I am going to have another doctor to-morrow,"
replied her father, still in that furious, excited voice, which the
sick woman must have heard.

"What shall I--" began Maria, but her father, running down the
stairs, cut her short.

"Do nothing," said he. "Just go in there and stay with her. And don't
you talk. Don't you speak a word to her. Go right in." With that the
front door slammed.

Maria went tiptoeing into her mother's room, still shaking from head
to foot, and her blue eyes seeming to protrude from her little white
face. Even before she entered her mother's room she became conscious
of a noise, something between a wail and a groan. It was
indescribably terrifying. It was like nothing which she had ever