The young man knelt beside the bed. The woman reached out and clutched him. He took her burning hand in his. By its pressure he knew that she was hearing what he said, as in a few simple words he brought to the attention of the Father the needs of a helpless and suffering child.
When he arose, the expression in the shining eyes told him the woman was still conscious.
A moment she looked into his face. Then she said: "Tain't nothin' to be skeered of—is ther'—I ain't skeered no more—God, He won't let them git me and carry me to hell—God—God——" then the intelligent light passed and the fitful fire of consuming fever took its place.
The end was at hand. Anxiously Abe Lincoln looked up the roadway, praying in his heart for a sight of Dr. Allen. The woman was raving wildly, and before another ten minutes had gone, life had left her body.
Abe Lincoln folded the hot hands over the fevered breast, straightened the head on the pillow and turned the cover up.
As he stood looking down on the clay tenement the baby cried. After a brief search the milk was found, and taking the little one from its dead mother, the gawky young man began the task of feeding it with a spoon.
Scarcely had he finished this task than the ring of horse's hoofs sounded down the roadway. Good Dr. Allen was coming, and with Hannah Armstrong.
"Too late, Doc," Abe Lincoln said quietly, looking toward the bed. Then holding the baby to Hannah Armstrong, he said, "I've fed calves and pups, but this one seems to leak about the ears. So far all the milk has gone down its neck."
Hannah Armstrong took the baby. Doctor Allen was looking at the hot body, which even now was beginning to turn black under the finger nails and about the mouth.
"Swamp poison," he said. "I could not have saved her—not to-day."