When he reached home again the fire was low, the house was very quiet, and Virginia’s face was white against her pillow.
“Our little daughter is asleep,” she said, and turning away she seemed not to hear her husband’s voice assuring her that Jim would bring the doctor as soon as possible.
The blizzard was just beginning in the early evening when Jim Shirley fairly blew down the trail from the north. He slipped into the kitchen and passed quietly to the next room. Asher was bending over his wife, who lay in a delirium.
Jim Shirley had one of those sympathetic natures that read the joys and sorrows of their friends without words. One look at Asher told him what had been.
“The doctor was away up Wolf Creek, but I left word with his colored man for him to come at once, and he’ll do it,” Jim assured Asher as he stood for a moment beside the bed. “I didn’t wait because you need me.” 125
Asher lifted his head and looked at Jim. As man to man they knew as never before the strength of their lifetime friendship.
“I need you. She needs the doctor. The baby—”
“Doesn’t need any of us,” Jim said softly. “I’ll do what I can.”
It is no strange, unreal story of the wilderness day, this fluttering in and out of a little life, where no rosewood grew for coffins nor florists made broken columns of white lilies and immortelles.
But no mother’s hands could have been more gentle than the gentle hands of Jim Shirley as he prepared the little form for burial.