A moment later Martie, buttoned into her old squirrel-lined coat, was in the quiet, deserted street, which was being muffled deeper and deeper in the softly falling snow.  Steps, areas, fences, were alike furred in soft white, old gratings wore an exquisite coating over their dingy filigree.  The snow was coming down evenly, untouched by wind, the flakes twisting like long ropes against the street lights.  A gang of men were talking and clanking shovels on the car tracks; an ambulance thudded by, the wheels grating and slipping on the snow.

Dr. and Mrs. Converse were in their dining room, a pleasant, shabby room smelling of musk, and with an old oil painting of fruit, a cut watermelon, peaches and grapes, a fringed napkin and a glass of red wine, over the curved black marble mantel.  The old man was enjoying a late supper, but struggled into his great coat cheerfully enough.  Mrs. Converse tried to persuade Martie to have just a sip of sherry, but Martie was frantic to be gone.  In a moment she and the old man were on their way, through the silent, falling snow again, and in her own hallway, and she was crying to Wallace:  “How is she?”

The room was steamy with the fumes of the croup kettle; Wallace, the child in his arms, met them with a face of terror.  Both men bent over the baby.

“She seems all right again now,” said Wallace in a sharp whisper, “but right after you left—­my God, I thought she would choke!”

Martie watched the doctor’s face, amazement and fright paralyzing every sense but sight.  The old man’s tender, clever hands rested for a moment on the little double-gown.

“Well, poor little girl!” he said, softly, after a moment of pulsing silence.  He straightened up, and looked at Martie.  “Gone,” he said simply.  “She died in her father’s arms.”

“Gone!” Martie echoed.  The quiet word fell into a void of silence.  Father and mother stood transfixed, looking upon each other.  Martie was panting like a runner, Wallace seemed dazed.  They stood so a long time.

Relief came first to Wallace; for as they laid the tiny form on the bed, and arranged the shabby little gown about it, he suddenly fell upon his knees, and flung one arm about his child and burst into bitter crying.  But Martie moved about, mute, unhearing, her mouth fallen a little open, her breath still coming hard.  She answered the doctor’s suggestions only after a moment’s frowning concentration—­ what did he say?

After a while he was gone, and Wallace was persuaded to go to bed again, Teddy tucked in beside him.  Then Martie lowered the light in what had been the children’s room, and knelt beside her dead.

The snow was still falling with a gentle, ticking sound against the window.  Muffled whistles sounded on the river; the night was so stilled that the clanking of shovels and the noise of voices came clearly from the car-tracks at the corner.

Hour after hour went by.  Martie knelt on; she was not conscious of grief or pain; she was not conscious of the world that would wake in the morning, and go about its business, and of the bright sun that would blaze out upon the snow.  There was no world, no sun, no protest, and no hope.  There was only the question:  Why?