“I think that he means what he says,” she told Ella slowly.  “I think that he means ... what he says.”

For she had seen the birth of something—­that might have been soul—­in Jim’s haggard eyes.

The child in Ella’s arms stirred, weakly, and was still again.  But the movement, slight as it was, made the girl forget her brother.  Her dark head bent above the fair one.

“Honey,” she whispered, “yer goin’ ter get well fer Ella—­ain’t yer?  Yer goin’ ter get well—­”

The door swung open with a startling suddenness, and Rose-Marie sprang forward, her hands outstretched.  Framed in the battered wood stood Bennie—­the tears streaking his face—­and behind him was the Young Doctor.  So tall he seemed, so capable, so strong, standing there, that Rose-Marie felt as if her troubles had been lifted, magically, from her shoulders.  All at once she ceased to be afraid—­ceased to question the ways of the Almighty.  All at once she felt that Lily would get better—­that the Volskys would be saved to a better life.  And all at once she knew something else.  And the consciousness of it looked from her wide eyes.

“You!” she breathed. “You!”

And, though she had sent for him, herself, she felt a glad sort of surprise surging through her heart.

The Young Doctor’s glance, in her direction, was eloquent.  But as his eyes saw the child in Ella’s arms his expression became impersonal, again, concentrated, and alert.  With one stride he reached Ella’s side, and took the tiny figure from her arms.

“What’s the matter here?” he questioned sharply.

Rose-Marie was not conscious of the words that she used as she described Lily’s accident.  She glossed over Jim’s part in it as lightly as possible; she told, as quickly as she could, the history of the child.  And as she told it, the doctor’s lean capable hands were passing, with practiced skill, over the little relaxed body.  When she told of the child’s deaf and dumb condition she was conscious of his absolute attention—­though he did not for a moment stop his work—­when she spoke of the scream she saw his start of surprise.  But his only words were in the nature of commands.  “Bring water”—­he ordered, “clean water, in a basin.  A clean basin.  Bring a sponge”—­he corrected himself—­“a clean rag will do—­only it must be clean”—­this to Mrs. Volsky, “you understand? Where,” his eyes were on Ella’s face, “can we lay the child?  Is there a clean bed, anywhere?”

Ella was shaking with nervousness as she opened the door of the inner room that she and Lily shared.  Mrs. Volsky, carrying the basin of water, was sobbing.  Jim, standing in the center of the room, was like a statue—­only his haunted eyes were alive.  The Young Doctor, glancing from face to face, spoke suddenly to Rose-Marie.

“I hate to ask you,” he said simply, “but you seem to be the only one who hasn’t gone to pieces.  Will you come in here with me?”