hand and arm clear of the coverlet, and stood watching
his breathing. Every now and then a spasm of
pain would cross the child's face; the chubby hand
would open convulsively and a muffled cry escape
him. Doctor John watched his breathing for some
minutes, laid his hand again on the child's forehead,
and rose from the stool.

"Start up that fire, Fogarty," he said in a crisp
tone, turning up his shirt-cuffs, slipping off his evening
coat, and handing the garment to the wife, who
hung it mechanically over a chair, her eyes all the
time searching Doctor John's face for some gleam of
hope.

"Now get a pan," he continued, "fill it with water
and some corn-meal, and get me some cotton cloth--
half an apron, piece of an old petticoat, anything,
but be quick about it."

The woman, glad of something to do, hastened to
obey. Somehow, the tones of his voice had put new
courage into her heart. Fogarty threw a heap of
driftwood on the smouldering fire and filled the
kettle; the dry splinters crackled into a blaze.

The noise aroused the child.

The doctor held up his finger for silence and
again caressed the boy's forehead. Fogarty, with a