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sick baby had quieted down at last, and now
lay very still.
There came a rattling at the door; some one
fumbled at tbe latch and I stared through the
gloom witb straining eyes, making up my mind
not to be afraid. The door opened slowly a
little way, and Ingeborg, our cook, put her
round face into tbe opening.
“ Well, have I found vou at last? And is it
liere vou are? I was to tell vou to betake
i »-■
yourself home. Your mother and fatber have
been worrying themselves to pieces about vou,
and–––”
“ ITush, Ingeborg! Be still. He is so sick,
so very sick.”
Ingeborg came over to the cradle and hent
down. Then she hurriedly brought the bit of
candle to tbe cradle.
“ Oh, he is dead,” she said slowly. “ Poor
little thing! Ile is dead,—poor little chap! ”
“ Oh no, Ingeborg, no! ” I sobbed. “ Is he
dead? For I lifted him up every single time
he coughed. Oh, it is beautiful that he is dead,
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