streaked the sky, this vigil continued; the doctor,
assisted by Fogarty and the wife, changing the poultices,
filling the child's lungs with hot steam by
means of a paper funnel, and encouraging the mother
by his talk. At one time he would tell her in half-
whispered tones of a child who had recovered and
who had been much weaker than this one. Again he
would turn to Fogarty and talk of the sea, of the
fishing outside the inlet, of the big three-masted
schooner which had been built by the men at Tom's
River, of the new light they thought of building at
Barnegat to take the place of the old one--anything
to divert their minds and lessen their anxieties, stopping
only to note the sound of every cough the boy
gave or to change the treatment as the little sufferer
struggled on fighting for his life.

When the child dozed no one moved, no word was
spoken. Then in the silence there would come to
their ears above the labored breathing of the boy the
long swinging tick of the clock, dull and ominous,
as if tolling the minutes of a passing life; the ceaseless
crunch of the sea, chewing its cud on the beach
outside or the low moan of the outer bar turning
restlessly on its bed of sand.

Suddenly, and without warning, and out of an
apparent sleep, the child started up from his pillow
with staring eyes and began beating the air for breath.