misery over Jims. And all the time the fatal membrane in his wee throat grew and thickened and he couldn't get it up.
“Oh, I was just wild! I never realized how dear Jims was to me until that moment. And I felt so utterly helpless. It was just as if we were fighting a relentless foe without any real weapons,—just like those poor Russian soldiers who had only their bare hands to oppose to German machine guns.
“And then Susan gave up.
“‘We cannot save him—oh, if your father was here—look at him, the poor little fellow! I know not what to do.’
“I looked at Jims and I thought he was dying. Susan was holding him up in his crib to give him a better chance for breath, but it didn’t seem as if he could breathe at all. My little war baby, with his dear ways and sweet roguish face, was choking to death before my very eyes, and I couldn’t help him I threw down the hot poultice I had ready in despair. Of what use was it? Jims was dying—and it was my fault—I hadn’t been careful enough!
“Just then—at eleven o'clock at night—the door bell rang. Such a ring—it pealed all over the house above the roar of the storm. Susan couldn’t go—she dared not lay Jims down,—so I rushed downstairs. In the hall I paused just a minute—I was suddenly overcome by an absurd dread. I thought of a weird story Gertrude had told me once. An aunt of hers was alone in a house one night with her sick husband. She heard a knock at the door. And when she went and opened it—there was nothing there—nothing that could be seen, at least. But when she opened the door
