Wan and pale as well could be, with perspiration standing in great drops on the poor little hot forehead, the hand of death, as it so often does, had put something into the face never there before.
"Oh, Mister Peter," the child said, on catching sight of him, "I said you'd come." Peter took his handkerchief and wiped the little head.

Then he took a newspaper, lying on a chair, twisted it into a rude fan, and began fanning the child as he sat on the bed.
"What did you want me for ?" he asked.
"Won't you tell me the story you read from the book?
The one about the little girl who went to the country, and was given a live dove and real flowers." Peter began telling the story as well as he could remember it, but it was never finished.

For while he talked another little girl went to the country, a far country, from which there is no return--and a very ordinary little story ended abruptly.
The father and mother took the death very calmly.

Peter asked them a few questions, and found that there were three other children, the eldest of whom was an errand boy, and therefore away.

The others, twin babies, had been cared for by a woman on the next floor.