The effect of the treatment began to tell upon the
little sufferer--his breathing became less difficult,
the spasms less frequent. The doctor whispered the
change to the wife, sitting close at his elbow, his impassive
face brightening as he spoke; there was an
oven chance now for the boy's life.

The vigil continued.

No one moved except Fogarty, who would now and
then tiptoe quickly to the hearth, add a fresh log to
the embers, and as quickly move back to his position
behind the child's crib. The rising and falling of
the blaze, keeping rhythm, as it were, to the hopes
and fears of the group, lighted up in turn each figure
in the room. First the doctor sitting with hands
resting on his knees, his aquiline nose and brow
clearly outlined against the shadowy background in
the gold chalk of the dancing flames, his black evening
clothes in strong contrast to the high white of the
coverlet, framing the child's face like a nimbus.
Next the bent body of the wife, her face in half-
tones, her stout shoulders in high relief, and behind,
swallowed up in the gloom, out of reach of the fire-.
gleam, the straight, motionless form of the fisherman,
standing with folded arms, grim and silent, his
unseen eyes fixed on his child.

Far into the night, and until the gray dawn