He crossed over to where the hapless young girl sat, and bent over her pityingly.
"The little one is dead!" he said in a low, hushed voice.
It was dying when he left the foundling asylum. As he gazed upon it, he said to himself that it would be but a question of a few short hours. He turned away from it, leaving it in the care of the good nurses, that he might go and gently break the sad news to the young mother.
While Miss Fernly and the hapless young mother were discussing the flowers they would plant over baby's grave, the nurses, with bated breath, were standing around the little cot. Another physician sat by the cot, holding the waxen wrist.
"Quick! hand me the cordial!" he cried. "I may be able to save this little life!"
A small vial was hurriedly handed to him. He poured a few drops between the white lips, and sat down again, patiently awaiting the result.
"If the infant lives five minutes, it will be able to pull through," he observed, quietly.
They watched the great clock on the opposite wall, whose pendulum swung noiselessly to and fro. One minute, two; there was no change. A third; the doctor bent his ear to listen for the feeble breathing, holding a mirror close to the child's lips. There was moisture upon it as he drew it away. Another moment, the crucial moment, was reached.
"See! it is dying!" whispered one of the nurses, touching the doctor's arm.
A half minute more, and then another half minute passed by.