"I thought so," he muttered from the doorway, and beckoned the others into the adjoining room.

For an hour they sat there. Gradually the child's sobs grew weaker; after awhile they caught their echo at long intervals and by and by they died away altogether.

The shadows of the dying day crept into the sick room and the wanness of its departing struggle was reflected on Cary's small, pinched face. She still lay in the boy's arms, quiet—spent with the effort of her delirium. The boy sat rigidly mute, supporting her.

The day sank into evening and the post surgeon came in quietly from the adjoining room. The boy's eyes met his as he entered. It was his only movement. Otherwise he might have been carved of stone. The boy's eyes smiled and the post surgeon retraced his steps.

"She's sleeping. The boy holds her life in his hands. If he c. . . Read More