Norman extended his hand, and grasped the thin, cold one the girl extended. He felt the chill of death in its icy touch as he stammered:
"I'll send him right away."
"Thank you," the girl replied, as a smile flitted about her weak mouth. She turned to Barbara with a look of infinite tenderness.
"I knew you'd come, and I knew you'd save me. You're my angel! When I dream at night, you're always hovering over me."
"I'll come again to-morrow, dearie, when the new doctor has seen you," Barbara answered, as she pressed her hand good-bye.
When they reached the street, Norman asked:
"You knew her before she fell into evil ways?"
"Yes," Barbara answered, with feeling. "She was just a little child of joy and sunlight. She couldn't endure the darkness. She loved flowers and music, beauty and love. She hated drudgery and poverty. She tried to work, and gave up in despair. A man came into her life at a critical moment and she broke with the world. She's been sending all the money she could make the past two years to her mother and four little kids. Her father was killed at work in a mine for a great corporation."
"She can't live, can she?" Norman asked.
"Of course not. I only did this to humour her. She has developed acute consumption—she may not live a month."