Toward morning the doctor placed a little mite of humanity in O'Connell's arms. He looked down at it in a stupor. It had really come to pass. Their child—Angela's and his! A little baby-girl. The tiny wail from this child, born of love and in sorrow, seemed to waken his dull senses. He pressed the mite to him as the hot tears flowed down his cheeks. A woman in one of the adjoining flats who had kindly offered to help took the child away from him. The doctor led him to the bedside. He looked down at his loved one. A glaze was over Angela's eyes as she looked up at him. She tried to smile. All her suffering was forgotten. She knew only pride and love. She was at peace. She raised her hand, thin and transparent now, to O'Connell. He pressed it to his lips.
She whispered:
"My baby. Bring me—my baby."
He took it from the woman and placed it in Angela's weak arms. She kissed it again and again. The child wailed pitifully. The effort had been too much for Angela's failing strength. Consciousness left her.
Just before sunrise she woke. O'Connell was sitting beside her. He had never moved. The infant was sleeping on some blankets on the couch—the woman watching her.
Angela motioned her husband to bend near to her. Her eyes shone with unearthly brightness. He put his ear near her lips. Her voice was very, very faint.
"Take—care—of—our—baby—Frank. I'm—I'm—leaving you. God—help—you—and—keep—you—and bless you—for—your—love—of me."
She paused to take breath—then she whispered her leave-taking. The words never left O'Connell's memory for all the days of all the years that followed.
"My—last—words—dear—the—last—I'll—ever—speak—to—you. I—I—love—you—with—all—my heart—and—my soul—HUSBAND! Good—good-bye—Frank." She slipped from his arms and lay, lips parted, eyes open, body still.
The struggle was over. She had gone where there are no petty treacheries, no mean brutalities—where all stand alike before the Throne to render an account of their stewardship.
The brave, gentle little heart was stilled forever.
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