"And there was poor Jack lickin' her hands, and him a dog everybody
is so scared of, and she a sinkin' down in a heap on my kitchen
floor."

"What is it?"

"She has passed away," answered Jane Riggs, "and--the baby is a boy,
and no bigger than the cat, not near as big as the cat when I come to
look at him, and I put some of my old flannels and my shimmy on him,
and Doctor Sturtevant has got him in my darning basket, all lined
with newspapers, the New York _Sun_, and the _Times_ and hot water
bottles, and it's all happened in the best chamber, and I call it
pretty goings on."

Jane Riggs gave vent to discordant sobs. Her apron crackled. Von
Rosen took hold of her shoulders. "Go straight back up there," he
ordered.

"Why couldn't she have gone in and fainted away somewhere where there
was more women than one," said Jane Riggs. "Doctor Sturtevant, he
sent me down for more newspapers."

"Take these, and go back at once," said Von Rosen, and he gathered up
the night papers in a crumpled heap and thrust them upon the woman.

"He said you had better telephone for Mrs. Bestwick," said Jane. Mrs.
Bestwick was the resident nurse of Fairbridge. Von Rosen sprang to
the telephone, but he could get no response whatever from the Central
office, probably on account of the ice-coated wires.