Long after Martha had closed her own door for the night Jane sat watching the sleeping child.

One plump pink hand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf was tucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossy curls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp.
"Poor little waif," she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherless waif! Why didn't you stay in heaven?
This world has no place for you." Then she rose wearily, picked up the light, carried it across the room to her desk, propped a book in front of it so that its rays would not fall upon the sleeping child, opened her portfolio, and sat down to write.
When she had finished and had sealed her letter it was long past midnight.

It was addressed to Lucy in Dresden, and contained a full account of all the doctor had told her of Bart's death..