"I'll come again at dawn," he said, "and in the meantime look out for your wife. She's been strained to the point of breaking."
"You think, then, that the child is—is hopeless?"
"Not hopeless, but very serious. I'll be back in a few hours. If there's a change, send for me, and remember, as I said, look out for your wife."
I went indoors, found some port wine left in Miss Mitty's bottles, poured out a glass, and carried it to her.
"Drink this, darling," I said.
As I held it to her lips, she swallowed it obediently, and then, looking up, she thanked me with her unfailing smile.
"Oh, we'll drink outer de healin' fountain, by en bye, lil' chillun,"
crooned Aunt Euphronasia softly, and the tune has rung ever afterwards somewhere in my brain. To escape from it at the time, I went out upon the front steps, closed the door, and walked, restless as a caged tiger, up and down the deserted pavement. A homeless dog or two, panting from thirst, lay in the gutter; otherwise there was not a sound, not a living thing, from end to end of the long dusty street.
For two hours I walked up and down there, entering the house from time to time to see if Sally needed me, or if she had moved. Then, as the light broke feebly, the doctor came, and we went in together. Sally was still sitting there, as she had sat all night, rigid in the dim glow of the lamp, and over her Aunt Euphronasia still waved the palm-leaf fan with its black, flitting shadow. Then, as we crossed the threshold, there was a sudden sharp cry, and when I sprang forward and caught them both in my arms, I found that Sally had fainted and the child was dead on her knees.