Ellen was looking at him in the mirror.

“Your hair looks queer, Willy,” she said.  “And I declare your clothes are a sight.”  She turned, sternly.  “Where have you been?”

“It’s a long story, Ellen.  Don’t bother about it now.  I’m worried about Edith.”

Ellen’s lips closed in a grim line.

“The less said about her the better.  She came back in a terrible state about something or other, ran in and up to your room, and out again.  I tried to tell her her mother wasn’t so well, but she looked as if she didn’t hear me.”

It was four o’clock in the morning when Willy Cameron located Edith.  He had gone to the pharmacy and let himself in, intending to telephone, but the card on the door, edged with black, gave him a curious sense of being surrounded that night by death, and he stood for a moment, unwilling to begin for fear of some further tragedy.  In that moment, what with reaction from excitement and weariness, he had a feeling of futility, of struggling to no end.  One fought on, and in the last analysis it was useless.

“So soon passeth it away, and we are gone.”

He saw Mr. Davis, sitting alone in his house; he saw Ellen moving about that quiet upper room; he saw Cusick lying on the ground beside the smoldering heap that had been the barn, and staring up with eyes that saw only the vast infinity that was the sky.  All the struggling and the fighting, and it came to that.

He picked up the telephone book at last, and finding the hospital list in the directory began his monotonous calling of numbers, and still the revolt was in his mind.  Even life lay through the gates of death; daily and hourly women everywhere laid down their lives that some new soul be born.  But the revulsion came with that, a return to something nearer the normal.  Daily and hourly women lived, having brought to pass the miracle of life.

At half-past four he located Edith at the Memorial, and learned that her child had been born dead, but that she was doing well.  He was suddenly exhausted; he sat down on a stool before the counter, and with his arms across it and his head on them, fell almost instantly asleep.  When he waked it was almost seven and the intermittent sounds of early morning came through the closed doors, as though the city stirred but had not wakened.

He went to the door and opened it, looking out.  He had been wrong before.  Death was a beginning and not an end; it was the morning of the spirit.  Tired bodies lay down to sleep and their souls wakened to the morning, rested; the first fruits of them that slept.

From the chimneys of the houses nearby small spirals of smoke began to ascend, definite promise of food and morning cheer behind the closed doors, where the milk bottles stood like small white sentinels and the morning paper was bent over the knob.  Morning in the city, with children searching for lost stockings and buttoning little battered shoes; with women hurrying about, from stove to closet, from table to stove; with all burdens a little lighter and all thoughts a little kinder.  Morning.