Toward morning the doctor placed a little mite of humanity in
O'Connell's arms. He looked down at it in a stupor. It had really
come to pass. Their child--Angela's and his! A little baby-girl. The
tiny wail from this child, born of love and in sorrow, seemed to
waken his dull senses. He pressed the mite to him as the hot tears
flowed down his cheeks. A woman in one of the adjoining flats who
had kindly offered to help took the child away from him. The doctor
led him to the bedside. He looked down at his loved one. A glaze was
over Angela's eyes as she looked up at him. She tried to smile. All
her suffering was forgotten. She knew only pride and love. She was
at peace. She raised her hand, thin and transparent now, to
O'Connell. He pressed it to his lips.

She whispered:

"My baby. Bring me--my baby."

He took it from the woman and placed it in Angela's weak arms. She
kissed it again and again. The child wailed pitifully. The effort
had been too much for Angela's failing strength. Consciousness left
her.

. . . . . . .

Just before sunrise she woke. O'Connell was sitting beside her. He
had never moved. The infant was sleeping on some blankets on the
couch--the woman watching her.