“No—­there is no necessity for that.  He is on the table.  But if he could see you.  It is the very end of our work,” he answered.  “It may be that he can’t—­you must be ready for that.”

“I am ready,” she said.

A second later she was in the room with the child.  She saw nothing but Derry, his little body beneath the sheet rigidly strapped to the table.  The group gave place, and Rachael stood beside him.  His beautiful baby eyes, wild with terror and agony, found her; she bent over him, and laid her fingers on his wet little forehead.  He wanted his mother to take him away, he had been calling her—­ hadn’t she heard him?  Please, please, not to let anyone touch him again!

Rachael summoned a desperate courage.  She spoke to him, she could even smile.  Did he remember the swing—­yes, but he didn’t remember Mother bringing him all the way up, so that Daddy and Uncle George—­

His brave eyes were fixed on hers.  He was trying to remember, trying to answer her smile, trying to think of other things than the recommencing pain.

No use.  The hoarse, terrible little screams began again.  His little hand writhed in hers.

“Mother—­please—­will you make them stop?”

Rachael was breathing deep, her own forehead was wet.  She knew the child’s strength was gone.

“Just a little more, dearest,” she said, white lipped; eyes full of agonized appeal turned to George.

“Doctor—­” One of the nurses, her hand on his pulse, said softly.  George Valentine looked up.

Rachael’s apprehensive glance questioned them both.  But Warren Gregory did not falter, did not even glance away from his own hands.

Then it was over.  The tension in the room broke suddenly, the atmosphere changed, although there was not an audible breath.  The nurses moved swiftly and surely, needing no instructions.  George lifted Derry’s little hand from Rachael’s, and put one arm about her.  Warren put down his instrument, and bent, his face a mask of anxiety, over the child.  Derry was breathing—­no more.  But on the bloodless face that Warren raised there was the light of hope.

“I believe he will make it, George,” he said.  “I think we have saved him for you, Rachael!  No—­no—­leave him where he is, Miss Moore.  Get a flat pillow under his head if you can.  Cover him up.  I’m going to stay here.”

“Wouldn’t he be more comfortable in his bed?” Rachael’s shaken voice asked in a low tone.  She was conscious only that she must not faint now.

“He would be, of course.  But it may be just by that fraction of energy that he is hanging on.  Brave little chap, he has been helping us just as if he knew—­”

But this Rachael could not endure.  Her whole body shook, the room rocked before her eyes.  She had strength to reach the hall, saw Alice standing white and tense, at the top of the stairs—­then it was all darkness.

It seemed hours later, though it was only minutes, that Rachael came dreamily to consciousness in her own old room, on her own bed.  Her idly moving eyes found the shaded lamp, found Alice sitting beside her.  Alice’s hand lay over her own.  For a long time they did not speak.