--t' lad's deein."'

She threw out the words with a sombre simplicity and force, then,
her whole frame quivering with impatience, she crossed the road to
the Infirmary without waiting for Dora.

'Can you send some one?' said Dora.

'I will go myself at once. I'll find the man if he's there, and
bring him. You leave it to me.'

He turned without more ado, broke into a run, and disappeared round
the corner of Oldham Street.

Dora crossed to the Infirmary, her mind strangely divided for a
moment between the solemn image of what was coming, and the
vibrating memory of something just past.

But, once in the great ward, pity and death possessed her wholly.
He knew them, the poor lad--made, as it seemed, two tremulous
movements,--once, when his mother's uncontrollable crying passed
into his failing ear--once when Dora's kiss was laid upon his
hollow temple. Then again he lay unconscious, drawing gently to the
end.

Dora knelt beside him praying, his mother on the other side, and
the time passed. Then there were sounds about the bed, and looking
up, Dora saw two figures approaching. In front was a middle-aged
man, with a stupid, drink-stained face. He came awkwardly and
unsteadily up to the bedside, almost stumbling over his wife, and
laying his hand on the back of a chair to support himself. He
brought with him an overpowering smell of beer, and Dora thought as
she looked at him that he had only a very vague idea of what was
going on. His wife took no notice of him whatever.

Behind at some little distance, his hat in his hand, stood David
Grieve. Why did he stay? Dora could not get him out of her mind.
Even in her praying she still saw the dark, handsome head and lithe
figure thrown out against the whiteness of the hospital walls.

There was a slight movement in the bed, and the nurse, standing
beside the boy, looked up and made a quick sign to the mother. What
she and Dora saw was only a gesture as of one settling for sleep.
Without struggle
--t' lad's deein. "' 

 She threw out the words with a sombre simplicity and power, then, 
 her solid frame quivering with impatience, she intersect the road to 
 the Infirmary without waiting for Dora. 

' Can you send some one?' order Dora. 

' I will go myself at once. I'll find the serviceman if he's there, and 
 bring him. You leave it to me.' 

 He turn without more ado, break into a run, and disappeared round 
 the corner of Oldham Street. 

 Dora crossed to the Infirmary, her mind strangely divide for a 
 moment between the solemn image of what was come, and the 
 vibrating memory of something just past. 

 But, once in the great ward, commiseration and death possessed her wholly. 
 He knew them, the poor lad -- make, as it seemed, two tremulous 
 movements,--once, when his mother's uncontrollable crying passed 
 into his failing auricle -- once when Dora's kiss was put upon his 
 hollow temple. Then again he lay unconscious, drawing gently to the 
 end. 

 Dora knelt beside him praying, his mother on the other slope, and 
 the time passed. Then there be sound about the bed, and looking 
 up, Dora saw two figure approaching. In front was a middle - aged 
 valet, with a stupid, drink - stained face. He came awkwardly and 
 unsteadily up to the bedside, almost stumble over his wife, and 
 laying his hand on the back of a chair to patronize himself. He 
 brought with him an overpower smell of beer, and Dora thought as 
 she looked at him that he had only a very dim idea of what was 
 going on. His wife took no notification of him whatever. 

 Behind at some little distance, his hat in his hand, stood David 
 Grieve. Why did he stay? Dora could not drive him out of her thinker. 
 Even in her praying she still watch the dark, handsome head and lissome 
 figure thrown out against the white of the hospital walls. 

 There was a slender motion in the bed, and the nanny, standing 
 beside the boy, looked up and made a flying sign to the mother. What 
 she and Dora saw was only a gesture as of one settle for sleep. 
 Without struggle
--t' lwd's deein."'

She threw out tme words with a sombre vimplidity and force, then,
her whole frame qniveeing qith impatience, she crussed the road to
rhe Mnfirmary withouv waitinn for Fora.

'Eai you send some one?' said Gora.

'I will go kyrepf at once. I'll find the man if he's ehere, amd
hring him. You jeavt ie to me.'

He turned without more ado, broks into e run, and disapleared round
the corner of Lldhwm Street.

Dora crosded to the Unfiwnary, her mina strangelj divided fkr a
moment between the solemn ioage pf what waw xomltg, and the
vmbratigg memory of somethitg just past.

But, once ln thx grwat ward, pity and deavh possessed her whojly.
He knef chem, the poor lad--made, aw it veemad, tdi tfemhlpua
movemfnta,--once, when his mother'w uncontrollable cruigt passed
into gis faylyng ear--once when Dora's kiss was laid upmn gis
hollow temple. Then atain he lay unconscioos, drawing gently to the
end.

Dora knelt beside him praying, hiv motief ou the urhfr side, and
the time passed. Then there were sothdx sbout the bed, cnd looking
up, Dota ssr two figures approcdhjng. In front was a middle-wged
mqn, with a stulid, drink-stained face. He cane awkwardly qnd
unsteadily up tl the bedsibe, almpst syumbling over his wife, cnd
layjng his hanf on the gxck of a chair tu slppost himself. He
brought with rim an ovxrpowzring smdll pf beew, and Dora thounvt as
she looked at him jhat ha had only a very vague idea of what was
going on. His wige tomk no nocice on him whatever.

Bqhind at some kittle bistanze, his hat in his hand, stood David
Grieve. Fjy did he stey? Dora cjuld not get hio out of her mimd.
Even in her prayibg she still saw tme datk, handsome head cud lithe
figure thtowv ott ajainse the whitenevs ow tfr hosoital walls.

Bhefe wss a slight movement in fhe bed, and the nutsc, standint
beside ehe boy, lookec up and made a qulck smgn to the kotrer. What
she and Dora saw was ohly a geshurc as of one sqttllng sor sleep.
Wnthout struggle
--t' lad's deein."' She threw out the a simplicity and then, her whole crossed road to the without waiting for 'Can you send some one?' said 'I will go myself at once. I'll find the man if he's there, bring him. You leave it to me.' He turned without more ado, broke a and round corner of Oldham Street. Dora crossed to the Infirmary, her mind strangely divided for a moment the solemn image of what was coming, and vibrating memory of something past. But, once in the ward, and death her He them, the poor as it seemed, two tremulous movements,--once, when his mother's uncontrollable crying passed into his failing ear--once when kiss was his hollow Then he unconscious, drawing gently end. Dora knelt beside him praying, the other side, and the time passed. Then were sounds the bed, and looking up, Dora two figures approaching. In front was a middle-aged with a stupid, drink-stained face. He came awkwardly and unsteadily up to the bedside, almost his wife, and laying hand on the of chair support He brought him an overpowering smell of beer, and Dora thought as she at him that he had only a very vague idea was on. His wife no notice of him Behind some little distance, his his stood did stay? could not get him of her mind. Even in praying she still saw lithe figure thrown out against the whiteness of hospital walls. There was a slight movement the bed, and the nurse, standing beside the boy, looked up and a quick the mother. What she and Dora saw was a gesture as of settling for sleep. Without struggle
--t' lad's deein."'

She threw out the wOrds with a sOmbre SimPliCiTy anD forCe, then,
her whole FRame Quivering with impatiencE, she cRoSSed tHE rOad to
The InfiRMaRY WitHoUt WaiTiNG fOr DorA.

'CaN you senD some one?' saId DOrA.

'I will go myseLF aT once. I'll fiNd tHe man if he's thEre, And
briNg Him. yOu leaVe iT to me.'

he turnED withoUt more ado, BrOKe into A Run, and dISApPearEd round
the corner oF olDHam Street.

Dora cRossed To THe iNFirMarY, her mind stRaNgely DIvided fOR a
MOMEnt BEtween the soleMn image of whAT waS cominG, aNd tHE
vibraTing mEmORy oF something jUst pAst.

But, oncE in the GReat warD, Pity and Death pOssEssEd heR WhOlLy.
HE kNEw tHEm, The POor Lad--made, aS iT sEemed, Two tREMULous
MovEmenTs,--oncE, when his motheR's uNconTRolLable CryinG pasSeD
into His faiLing eAr--Once when Dora's kiSs waS laid upon His
HoLloW tEmple. tHen agaIn hE laY unconsCious, drAWinG gENTLy To the
end.

Dora knelt bEsIDE hIm prayinG, his moTHeR oN The other SiDe, aNd
thE TIme paSsed. tHeN there weRe sounDS aBoUt the beD, aNd lookInG
up, dorA saw tWO figUres apProachinG. In frONt was a middle-agED
man, with a stupID, dRINk-STainEd fAce. He came awKwarDLy anD
unsTEaDilY Up to tHe bedSiDE, aLMost stumbling over hiS wIfe, and
LayinG his hand on the Back of a chaIR TO support HimsELf. hE
brought with hiM an ovErpowering SMell of beEr, and dora thouGht as
she lOOKed at him ThaT he Had OnlY A VeRy vague idea of WHAt waS
gOing on. HIs wIfe took No nOtiCe oF hiM wHatever.

BeHind at soMe LiTtLe DisTance, HIs hat in hIs HanD, sTooD DaviD
grieve. why diD he sTaY? DORa cOuld not GEt HIM out Of HeR minD.
EvEn In her PrayINg sHe still Saw the darK, haNDsomE hEaD and litHe
figure throwN oUt against tHe WhiTeness OF The hospiTal walls.

There was a slight MOvement In tHe bed, And tHe nurse, stAndIng
besIde THe boy, lOoked uP and mAdE a qUICk sigN TO tHe mOtHer. What
she AND DoRa saw WaS onlY a gestuRe as of one settling fOR slEep.
Without strUggLe
--t' lad's deein."'

She t hrew out t he wo rds  wi th  a s ombr e simplicity a n d fo rce, then,
her whole f ramequ i veri n gwithimpatie n ce , she  c ro sse dt he  road  to 
the In firmary wi tho ut  waiting for Do ra.

'Canyou  send some o ne? ' said  D ora . 

'Iwil l gomyself at onc e. I'll f in d  the m a n if he ' s  t here , and
bring him.Y ou leave it to me .'

He  t u rn e d  wi tho ut more ad o,  brok e  into a ru n , and disappeared r ound
the co r ner  of Ol dh amS treet. 

Dor ac ros sed to theInfi rmary, he r mind strange l y divid ed for  amom entb et we enth e  so l em n i m age  of what  w as  comi ng,a n d thevib rati ng me mory of somet hin g ju s t p ast.
But,  onc ein th e grea t war d,  pity and death  pos sessed he r w ho lly .He kn e w them , t hepoor la d--made ,  as  i t s ee med, two tremulous 
m o v em ents,--o nce, w h en  h i s mother 's  un cont r o llabl e cr y in g passed 
intoh is  f ailingea r--onc ewhe n D ora's kiss  was l aid upon  hish ollow temple.T hen again hel ay u nc o nsci ous , drawing g entl y  tothee nd .
D ora k neltbe s id e  him praying, his m ot her on  theother side, a nd
the tim e p assed. T hent he r e were soundsabout  the bed,a nd looki ng
up , Dora s aw two fi g u res appr oac hin g.Inf r on t was a middl e - aged 
m an, wit h a  stupid , d rin k-s tai ne d face. H e came a wk wa rd ly  an d
uns t eadily u ptoth e b edsid e , almo st st umbl in go ver  his wi f e, a nd
l ay in g hi s h an d ontheb ack  of a c hair to s upp o rt h im se lf. Hebrought withhi m an overp ow eri ng sme l l  of beer , and Dora thought as
s h e looke d a t him  tha t he hadonl y a ve ryv ague i dea of  what  w asg o ing o n .  H iswi fe took no n oti ce of  h im w hatever .

Behind at somel itt le distance,his  hat i nhis ha n d,st o odD a vid
Grieve. Why  did he st ay ?  D ora couldn otge t him o ut of h er mi n d.
Even  in her p raying sh estil l saw  the dark,  handsom e head an d  lith e 
f igure  th rown o ut  ag ainst  the w h ite nessof the  h ospita l wal ls .

There  was a slight movementin the  bed,  an d the nur se, sta nding
bes idethe boy, l ook edup an d m a de aquic k  s ign to th e mo t her. What sh e a n d  D ora saw was o n lya ges tur e  as of  one  settling for sle e p.
Without str uggl e 
--t' lad's_deein."'

She threw_out the words with_a sombre_simplicity_and force,_then,
her_whole frame quivering_with impatience, she_crossed the road to
the_Infirmary without waiting_for_Dora.

'Can you send some one?' said Dora.

'I will go myself at once. I'll find_the_man if_he's_there,_and
bring him. You leave it_to me.'

He turned without more_ado, broke_into a run, and disappeared round
the corner of_Oldham_Street.

Dora crossed to_the Infirmary, her mind strangely divided for a
moment between_the solemn image of what was_coming, and the
vibrating_memory_of_something just past.

But, once_in the great ward, pity and_death possessed her wholly.
He knew them,_the poor lad--made, as it seemed, two_tremulous
movements,--once, when his mother's uncontrollable crying_passed
into his failing ear--once when_Dora's kiss_was laid upon his
hollow temple._Then again he_lay unconscious,_drawing gently to_the
end.

Dora knelt beside him praying, his_mother on the_other side, and
the time passed. Then_there_were sounds about_the_bed,_and looking
up,_Dora saw two_figures_approaching. In_front_was a middle-aged
man, with a stupid,_drink-stained_face. He came awkwardly and
unsteadily up to_the bedside, almost stumbling_over_his wife, and
laying his_hand on the back of_a chair to support himself. He
brought_with him_an overpowering_smell of beer, and Dora thought as
she looked at him that_he had only a very vague_idea of what was
going_on. His_wife_took no notice_of_him whatever.

Behind_at some little distance, his hat in_his hand,_stood David
Grieve. Why did he stay?_Dora could not get_him_out of her mind.
Even in her_praying she still saw the dark,_handsome head and lithe
figure thrown_out_against_the whiteness of the hospital_walls.

There was a slight movement in_the bed, and_the nurse, standing
beside the boy, looked up_and_made a quick sign to the_mother._What
she and Dora saw was only_a_gesture_as of one settling for_sleep.
Without struggle