The whispering of her skirts on the stairs announced her coming before she entered the room. She had been sitting by Archie's crib and had not waited to change her loose white gown, whose clinging folds accentuated her frail, delicate form. Her hair had been caught up hastily and hung in a dark mass, concealing her small, pale ears and making her face all the whiter by contrast.
"Something alarming has brought you at this hour," she said, with a note of anxiety in her voice, walking rapidly toward him. "What can I do? Who is ill?"
Doctor John sprang forward, held out both hands, and holding tight to her own, drew her close to him.
"Has Martha told you?" he said tenderly.
"No; only that you wanted me. I came as soon as I could."
"It's about Barton Holt. His father has just left my office. I have very sad news for you. The poor boy—"
Jane loosened her hands from his and drew back. The doctor paused in his recital.
"Is he ill?" she inquired, a slight shiver running through her.
"Worse than ill! I'm afraid you'll never see him again."
"You mean that he is dead? Where?"