“I can’t bear to go till we know how it comes out.”

Sue stared at her.  “You don’t mean to say you care?  Why—­it’s just a forlorn little foundling—­better dead than alive.  I saw it when I was here two weeks ago.  It has nothing to live for, dear.  Don’t think of it again.”

“But he cared—­your brother cared,” said Helena Forrest.

“Oh, Don cares about everything.  I never saw such a soft heart.  Of course I think it’s lovely of him, though I don’t understand how he can be so absorbed in such a class of people.”

Miss Forrest went to the one window of the room.  She lifted the plain shade which covered it and looked out into the night.

Ten yards away she saw a brightly lighted, uncurtained window, beyond which were figures, plainly discernible.  The figures were moving, one bringing a pail, another stooping—­the scene was not one of still waiting but of tense action.  She caught a glimpse of Doctor Brainard’s tall form bending above something at one side, then she saw Brown himself cross the room in haste.

Mrs. Brainard and Sue went back to the outer room to stand before the fire with the purpose of accumulating all the bodily heat possible before the long, cold drive.  Miss Forrest, unheeding them, remained by the window in the unlighted bedroom.  Minutes passed.  Hugh Breckenridge had fallen to examining the larger room’s eighteenth century features—­he was something of a connoisseur in antiques.

Helena, turning from the window for a moment, scanned the shadowy room in which she stood.  It was very scantily furnished with the bare essentials.  Upon the plain chest of drawers which held Brown’s bachelor belongings stood a few simply framed photographs; an old set of hanging bookshelves was crammed full of books, with more overflowing upon the floor.

Suddenly, as she stood there, an outer door banged; swift footsteps crossed the floor.  Helena turned to see Donald Brown himself rushing into the room.  He ran to the chest of drawers, pulled one open, searched a minute, withdrew something, and was hurrying out of the room again, when he caught sight of the figure at the window.  Involuntarily he halted for an instant.

“Can you save it?” Helena cried, under her breath.

“I don’t know—­Brainard’s got his coat off.  Pray for us, will you?”

He was gone again.

Beside the narrow bed on which he lay every night, there dropped upon its knees a figure in sumptuous furs; a face such as men vow themselves ready to die for was pressed into the hard little pillow.  Helena Forrest breathed a prayer of beseeching for a life she had never seen, and when she had done lifted eyes wet with tears.

As Hugh Breckenridge, protesting at the lateness of the hour, marshalled his friends into the great car at the door, Doctor Brainard came out of Mrs. Kelcey’s house and ran across to the curb.

“Don wants me to tell you that the baby’s pulled through.  It’s gone off to sleep with his finger in its fist, and he won’t leave it.  He says ‘good-night’ to you.”