Jane Riggs gave vent to discordant sobs.  Her apron crackled.  Von Rosen took hold of her shoulders.  “Go straight back up there,” he ordered.

“Why couldn’t she have gone in and fainted away somewhere where there was more women than one,” said Jane Riggs.  “Doctor Sturtevant, he sent me down for more newspapers.”

“Take these, and go back at once,” said Von Rosen, and he gathered up the night papers in a crumpled heap and thrust them upon the woman.

“He said you had better telephone for Mrs. Bestwick,” said Jane.  Mrs. Bestwick was the resident nurse of Fairbridge.  Von Rosen sprang to the telephone, but he could get no response whatever from the Central office, probably on account of the ice-coated wires.

He sat down disconsolately, and the cat leapt upon his knees, but he pushed him away impatiently, to be surveyed in consequence by those topaz eyes with a regal effect of injury, and astonishment.  Von Rosen listened.  He wondered if he heard, or imagined that he heard, a plaintive little wail.  The dog snuggled close to him, and he felt a warm tongue lap.  Von Rosen patted the dog’s head.  Here was sympathy.  The cat’s leap into his lap had been purely selfish.  Von Rosen listened.  He got up, and tried to telephone again, but got no response from Central.  He hung up the receiver emphatically and sat down again.  The dog again came close, and he patted the humble loving head.  Von Rosen listened again, and again could not be sure whether he actually heard or imagined that he heard, the feeblest, most helpless cry ever lifted up from this earth, that of a miserable new born baby with its uncertain future reaching before it and all the sins of its ancestors upon its devoted head.

When at last the door opened and Doctor Sturtevant entered, he was certain.  That poor little atom of humanity upstairs was lifting up its voice of feeble rage and woe because of its entrance into existence.  Sturtevant had an oddly apologetic look.  “I assure you I am sorry, my dear fellow—­” he began.

“Is the poor little beggar going to live?” asked Von Rosen.

“Well, yes, I think so, judging from the present outlook,” replied the doctor still apologetically.

“I could not get Mrs. Bestwick,” said Von Rosen anxiously.  “I think the telephone is out of commission, on account of the ice.”

“Never mind that.  Your housekeeper is a jewel, and I will get Mrs. Bestwick on my way home.  I say, Von Rosen—­”

Von Rosen looked at him inquiringly.

“Oh, well, never mind; I really must be off now,” said the doctor hurriedly.  “I will get Mrs. Bestwick here as soon as possible.  I think—­the child will have to be kept here for a short time anyway, considering the weather, and everything.”

“Why, of course,” said Von Rosen.

After the doctor had gone, he went out in the kitchen.  He had had no dinner.  Jane Riggs, who had very acute hearing, came to the head of the stairs, and spoke in a muffled tone, muffled as Von Rosen knew because of the presence of death and life in the house.  “The roast is in the oven, Mr. von Rosen,” said she, “I certainly hope it isn’t too dry, and the soup is in the kettle, and the vegetables are all ready to dish up.  Everything is ready except the coffee.”