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This night he sat down beside the cradle, holding the bottle of medicine and a spoon in his hand. The hot, painful face of the child fascinated him. He looked from it to the bottle, and back, then again to the bottle. He started, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. For though the doctor had told him in words the proper dose, he had by mistake written on the label the same dose as for the mother! Here was the responsibility shifted in any case. More than once the old man uncorked the bottle, and once he dropped out the opiate in the spoon steadily; but the child opened its suffering eyes at him, its little wasted hand wandered over the coverlet, and he could not do it just then. But again the passion for its destruction came on him, because he heard his daughter moaning in the other room. He said to himself that she would be happier when it was gone. But as he stooped over the cradle, no longer hesitating, the door softly opened, and Pierre entered. The old man shuddered, and drew back from the cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt in the old man’s face, and his instinct told him what was happening. He took the bottle from the trembling hand, and looked at the label.

“What is the proper dose?” he asked, seeing that a mistake had been made by the doctor.

In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. “It may be too late,” Pierre added. He knelt down, with light fingers opened the child’s mouth, and poured the medicine in slowly. The old man stood for a time rigid, looking at them both. Then he came round to the other side of the cradle, and seated himself beside it, his eyes fixed on the child’s face. For a long time they sat there. At last the old man said: “Will he die, Pierre?”

“I am afraid so,” answered Pierre painfully. “But we shall see.” Then early teaching came to him, never to be entirely obliterated, and he added: “Has the child been baptised?”

The old man shook his head. “‘Will you do it?” asked Pierre hesitatingly.

“I can’t–I can’t,” was the reply.

Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if at himself, got some water in a cup, came over, and said: “Remember, I’m a Papist!”

A motion of the hand answered him.

He dipped his fingers in the water, and dropped it ever so lightly on the child’s forehead.

“George Magor,”–it was the old man’s name,–“I baptise thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Then he drew the sign of the cross on the infant’s forehead.

Sitting down, he watched beside the child. After a little he heard a long choking sigh. Looking up, he saw tears slowly dropping from Magor’s eyes.

And to this day the child and the mother of the child are dear to the old man’s heart.