She went to the cot and said in a whisper, not to me nor to Mrs. Henderson but to herself, “I think he’s going to die.” She touched the little boy’s forehead lightly with her fingertips. A shudder coursed through Ivan’s thin body under the bedclothes, and my mother drew back in alarm. His stifled breathing seemed to stop and then began again, a rattling, wheezing inspiration. Forgetful of my duty towards him and even of my love, I could only look on him with horror, but I was impelled to his side where I knelt down, taking his tiny wrist between my fingers. The pulse raced under my untutored touch. His sharp little face was distorted and blue; the red lips hung and the cheeks drew in. I heard someone come to the door and, thinking it was the doctor, turned in relief, but it was only Sarah. “He advised another poultice and he’s coming in half an hour.”

“Oh, Lord!” cried her mother. “I don’t know what to do. His poor little chest is raw where they’ve been.” But, although she was certain that the doctor was wrong, she was obedient to his professional orders, and went to the stove to heat the mat. I followed and opened a new shaker of mustard. The sharp smell stung my nostrils; in this one whiff seemed to be embodied all the others that I had taken in in these four long days. I lunged heavily against the stove in my sudden fatigue and burned my wrist. Instinctively, I put the hurt place to my tongue and as I did so, my mother called from the bedroom, “Sonia! Hurry! I think he’s dead.”

As I dropped his hand, thin as a bird’s foot, and turned to my mother I thought I saw, passing like a light across her face, a look of pity and regret; but perhaps I only imagined it for immediately she smiled and said, “See how peaceful he is.”

Mrs. Henderson covered his face with the sheet and, turning, hid my face from him in an embrace. I could feel her bosom rising and falling tranquilly as she murmured, “There, there, the little fellow’s better off now God has taken him. Just you rest a little, pet, and then you go over to my house and stay until I come.” But in the other room, while she was comforting me, my mother was admitting Dr. Galbraith and I heard his voice, curiously cleared of its stammer: “What charming work you’re holding there, ma’am. I had no idea my little patient’s mother was an artist.”

“My son is dead.”

“Oh, I didn’t know! It must have been only a few minutes ago.”

“In there,” she said. “I was just making a poultice—you see I had everything ready, when suddenly he cried out and I went to him. He died in my arms.”

“God bless you.”