At the station she stayed in the wagon. Blake took his wife and Dorcas into the waiting-room and came back for his bag. Charlotte had it ready for him, resting on the wheel. He did not offer to take it at first, but stood in the beam from the station window, trying to speak. "Well?" she said. "I guess there's not much I can say," he choked out. For a long time she made no answer. Then her breath came with an unexpected gasp. "It wasn't your fault--I made you do it." For a moment more they were silent. Then she shifted the sleeping baby towards him. "Don't you want to kiss her?" she asked. He bent his face to the child with a sudden passionate tenderness. As he looked up, his wet eyes met Charlotte's, which were full of tears. She put out her hand to him. "I guess I've been hard on you," she said. ELIZABETH AND DAVIE BY MURIEL CAMPBELL DYAR When the town doctor, coming out to Turkey Ridge, had given as his verdict that Elizabeth's one chance of life--he could not say how slim the chance in that plain room, having within it the pleasant noise of bees and the spring sun on the floor--lay in her going to the great hospital in the city, it was Davie who fell to sobbing in his worn hands. "I'll jest die at home, Davie," she said in her quiet voice. "You'll take the money put away for our buryin' an' go, dearie!" Davie cried out fiercely. His gaunt frame, stooped as a scholar's, shook so pitifully with his grief, she had not the heart to gainsay him, but after she promised him it only shook the more. "Why, Davie," she chided, brightly, "ain't I always been a-wantin' to see the city streets with the hurryin' people, 'n' tall houses, 'n' churches with towers on 'em? They ain't many folks on th' Ridge'll hev sech a lettin'-out as mine."