"Won't you tell me, doctor?"
He looked at her in stern distrust. Her face was innocent as a child's. She interrogated his countenance imploringly through her tears.
"Don't you know, Katharine?"
She began to cry bitterly.
"How could I? no one tells me, and I can't remember any thing."
"Katharine, is this true?"
"Is what true, doctor?"
"Have you no knowledge how the child died?"
"No; I was in bed here, shaking with cold and burning up with fever. I wanted the baby, and got up; it was in the cradle, dead. Oh, I remember so well how white its little face was—how white and cold. I came back again, crept into bed, and wished that God would let me die, too."
"And this is all you know?"