“I think we’d better go,” said Gershom.  It amazed Patty to find how gentle he could be when his sympathy was touched.  “I oughtn’t to have brought you to-day.”  Turning away, he left the room hurriedly, as if the scene were too much for him.

At this the woman controlled herself with a convulsive effort.  “No, I wanted to see you,” she said.  “You are pretty, but you aren’t prettier than your mother was at your age.”

For a moment the girl looked pityingly down on her.  “I hope you will soon be better,” she responded in a tone which she tried to make sympathetic in spite of the physical shrinking she felt.  “Let me know when you wish to see me, and I will come back.”

The woman shivered.  “Do you mean that?” she asked.  “Will you come when I send for you?  I want to see you again—­once—­before I die.”

“I promise you that I will come.  I’ll send you something, too, and so will Father.”

“Gideon Vetch,” said the woman very slowly, as if she were trying to hold the name in her consciousness before it slipped away from her.  “Gideon Vetch.”

As the girl broke away and ran out of the room that expressionless repetition followed her into the hall and down the staircase, growing fainter and fainter like the voice of one who is falling asleep:  “Gideon Vetch.  Gideon Vetch.”

On the porch, where the stout man had returned to his newspaper, Patty found Gershom standing beside the perambulator, with the black-eyed baby in his arms.  He was gazing gravely over the round bald head, and his face wore a funereal expression which contrasted ludicrously with the clucking sounds he was making to the attentive and interested baby.  When Patty joined him he put the child back into the carriage, carefully tucking the crocheted robe about the tiny shoulders.  “I kind of thought the little one might like a chance to get out of that buggy,” he observed, while he straightened himself briskly, and adjusted his tie.

“She must be very ill,” said the girl, as they went out of the gate and turned down the street.

“A sure thing,” replied Gershom concisely.  Then he whistled sharply, and added, “Rotten, that’s what I call it.”

“She said she’d never had a chance,” remarked Patty thoughtfully, “I wonder what she meant.”

The funereal expression spread like a pall over Gershom’s features, but his intermittent whistle sounded as sprightly as ever.  “Well, how many folks in this world have ever had what you might call a decent chance?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  I hadn’t thought.”  The girl looked depressed and puzzled.  “It’s a dreadful thing to think that nobody cares when you’re dying.”  Then her tone grew more hopeful.  “Do you suppose anybody thinks that Father never had a chance?” she asked.

Gershom broke into a laugh.  “Well, if he had it, you may be pretty sure that he made it himself,” he retorted.

“Then I wish he could make some for other people.”