As winter came on she used to sit up before her grate fire long,
long after we were asleep in our beds. When she neglected to
pull down the shades we could see the flames of her cosy fire
dancing gnomelike on the wall.
There came a night of sleet and snow, and wind and rattling
hail--one of those blustering, wild nights that are followed by
morning-paper reports of trains stalled in drifts, mail delayed,
telephone and telegraph wires down. It must have been midnight
or past when there came a hammering at Blanche Devine's door--a
persistent, clamorous rapping. Blanche Devine, sitting before
her dying fire half asleep, started and cringed when she heard
it, then jumped to her feet, her hand at her breast--her eyes
darting this way and that, as though seeking escape.

She had heard a rapping like that before. It had meant bluecoats
swarming up the stairway, and frightened cries and pleadings, and
wild confusion. So she started forward now, quivering. And then
she remembered, being wholly awake now--she remembered, and threw
up her head and smiled a little bitterly and walked toward the
door. The hammering continued, louder than ever. Blanche Devine
flicked on the porch light and opened the door. The half-clad
figure of the Very Young Wife next door staggered into the room.
She seized Blanche Devine's arm with both her frenzied hands and
shook her, the wind and snow beating in upon both of them.

"The baby!" she screamed in a high, hysterical voice. "The
baby! The baby----!"

Blanche Devine shut the door and shook the Young Wife smartly by
the shoulders.