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.

“Stop screaming,” she said quietly.  “Is she sick?”

The Young Wife told her, her teeth chattering: 

“Come quick!  She’s dying!  Will’s out of town.  I tried to get the doctor.  The telephone wouldn’t—­I saw your light!  For God’s sake—­”

Blanche Devine grasped the Young Wife’s arm, opened the door, and together they sped across the little space that separated the two houses.  Blanche Devine was a big woman, but she took the stairs like a girl and found the right bedroom by some miraculous woman instinct.  A dreadful choking, rattling sound was coming from Snooky’s bed.

“Croup,” said Blanche Devine, and began her fight.

It was a good fight.  She marshalled her little inadequate forces, made up of the half-fainting Young Wife and the terrified and awkward hired girl.

“Get the hot water on—­lots of it!” Blanche Devine pinned up her sleeves.  “Hot cloths!  Tear up a sheet—­or anything!  Got an oilstove?  I want a teakettle boiling in the room.  She’s got to have the steam.  If that don’t do it we’ll raise an umbrella over her and throw a sheet over, and hold the kettle under till the steam gets to her that way.  Got any ipecac?”

The Young Wife obeyed orders, whitefaced and shaking.  Once 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 ever so gently at the side of the bed, took a last satisfied look at the face on the pillow, and turned to look at the wan, dishevelled 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.