in low tones, while at intervals Azalea crept to the door and looked in on them.

At last the baby wailed out with lusty cry, which sounded through the stillness of the house and roused Cassandra, but as she lifted her head, David clung to her and drew her cheek to his lips.

“Are you hurt?” he murmured. In some strange way he had confused matters, and thought it was she who had been shot.

“It’s not me that’s hurt,” she said tenderly.

Azalea hurried away and returned with the warm milk she had prepared for Cassandra, who took it and held it to David’s lips.

“Drink it, Doctah. She won’t touch anything till you do.”