THE next thing she knew, she felt herself seized strongly by the arm. She gazed round in a dazed way. She was in the street—how she got there she had no idea. The grip on her arm—it was the young doctor, Hamilton. "I called you twice," explained he, "but you didn't hear."
"He is dead," said she.
Hamilton had a clear view of her face now. There was not a trace of the child left. He saw her eyes—quiet, lonely, violet stars. "You must go and rest quietly," he said with gentleness. "You are worn out."
Susan took from her bosom the twenty dollars, handed it to him.
"It belongs to him," said she. "Give it to them, to bury him."
And she started on.
"Where are you going?" asked the young man.
Susan stopped, looked vaguely at him. "Good-by," she said.
"You've been very kind."
"You've found a boarding place?"
"Oh, I'm all right."
"You want to see him?"
"No. Then he'll always be alive to me."