"Hold him?" Rachael's voice of agony said. "Yes, I could do that. I--I have been wanting to!"
"No--there is no necessity for that. He is on the table. But if he could see you. It is the very end of our work," he answered. "It may be that he can't--you must be ready for that."
"I am ready," she said.
A second later she was in the room with the child. She saw nothing but Derry, his little body beneath the sheet rigidly strapped to the table. The group gave place, and Rachael stood beside him. His beautiful baby eyes, wild with terror and agony, found her; she bent over him, and laid her fingers on his wet little forehead. He wanted his mother to take him away, he had been calling her--hadn't she heard him? Please, please, not to let anyone touch him again!
Rachael summoned a desperate courage. She spoke to him, she could even smile. Did he remember the swing--yes, but he didn't remember Mother bringing him all the way up, so that Daddy and Uncle George--
His brave eyes were fixed on hers. He was trying to remember, trying to answer her smile, trying to think of other things than the recommencing pain.
No use. The hoarse, terrible little screams began again. His little hand writhed in hers.
"Mother--PLEASE--will you make them stop?"
Rachael was breathing deep, her own forehead was wet. She knew the child's strength was gone.
"Just a little more, dearest," she said, white lipped; eyes full of agonized appeal turned to George.