AND A MIRACLE
For a moment Rose-Marie was stunned by the child's unexpected cry. She hung speechless, filled with wonderment, in Jim's arms. And then, with a wrench, she was free—was running across the floor to the little huddled bundle that was Lily.
"You beast," she flung back, over her shoulder, as she ran. "You beast!
You've killed her!"
Jim did not attempt to follow—or to answer. He had wheeled about, and his face was very pale.
"God!" he said, in a tense whisper, "God!" It was the first time that the word, upon his lips, was neither mocking nor profane.
Rose-Marie, with tender hands, gathered the child up from the hard floor. She was not thinking of the miracle that had taken place—she was not thinking of the sound that had come, so unexpectedly, from dumb lips. She only knew that the child was unconscious, perhaps dying. Her trembling fingers felt of the slim wrist; felt almost with apprehension. She was surprised to feel that the pulse was still beating, though faintly.
"Get somebody," she said, tersely, to Jim. "Get somebody who knows—something!"
Jim's face was still the colour of ashes. He did not stir—did not seem to have the power to stir.
"Did yer hear her?" he mouthed thickly. "She yelled. I heard her. Did yer hear—"
Rose-Marie was holding Lily close to her breast. Her stern young eyes looked across the drooping golden head into the scared face of the man.