He thought ye'd sure find it there when ye come in." Doctor John was not listening to her explanations; he was leaning over the rude crib, his ear to the child's breast.

Regaining his position, he smoothed the curls tenderly from the forehead of the little fellow, who still lay with eyes closed, one stout brown hand and arm clear of the coverlet, and stood watching his breathing.

Every now and then a spasm of pain would cross the child's face; the chubby hand would open convulsively and a muffled cry escape him.

Doctor John watched his breathing for some minutes, laid his hand again on the child's forehead, and rose from the stool.
"Start up that fire, Fogarty," he said in a crisp tone, turning up his shirt-cuffs, slipping off his evening coat, and handing the garment to the wife, who hung it mechanically over a chair, her eyes all the time searching Doctor John's face for some gleam of hope.
"Now get a pan," he continued, "fill it with water and some corn-meal, and get me some cotton cloth--half an apron, piece of an old petticoat, anything, but be quick about it." The woman, glad of something to do, hastened to obey.

Somehow, the tones of his voice had put new courage into her heart.