Blanche Devine glanced up at her sharply.

"Don't you dare faint!" she commanded.

And the fight went on. Gradually the breathing that had been so
frightful became softer, easier. Blanche Devine did not relax.
It was not until the little figure breathed gently in sleep that
Blanche Devine sat back, satisfied. Then she tucked a cover at
the side of the bed, took a last satisfied look at the face on
the pillow, and turned to look at the wan, disheveled Young Wife.

"She's all right now. We can get the doctor when morning
comes-- though I don't know's you'll need him."

The Young Wife came round to Blanche Devine's side of the bed and
stood looking up at her.

"My baby died," said Blanche Devine simply. The Young Wife
gave a little inarticulate cry, put her two hands on Blanche
Devine's broad shoulders, and laid her tired head on her breast.

"I guess I'd better be going," said Blanche Devine.

The Young Wife raised her head. Her eyes were round with fright.

"Going! Oh, please stay! I'm so afraid. Suppose she should
take sick again! That awful--breathing----"

"I'll stay if you want me to."