Gloom lay over the Silent City. Bitter hatred burned in the simple heart of every squatter. Waldstricker's open enmity had expressed itself in a series of injuries, calculated to enrage them. The shanty folk resented his cruelty to Mother Moll. The destruction of her shack promised a similar fate to their homes. When the story of Waldstricker's attack upon Boy Skinner spread among them, fierce threats were muttered at the fishing holes and by the firesides. The wintry winds of the Storm Country, shrieking over the desolate masses of ice and snow, were not more fierce and cruel than the squatters' demand for vengeance. The daily bulletins of the little one's illness kept the interest alive and added to the growing excitement and indignation.
Day after day, the doctor had come to the Young home, each time shaking his head more gravely. To Deforrest, the helpless witness of the unfolding tragedy, the days and nights were but a continuing torture. Andy Bishop stole about the house like a small white ghost, waiting upon Tessibel and Mother Moll. One morning, a few days before Christmas, the doctor told Deforrest Young he considered Boy beyond earthly help. And now it devolved upon the lawyer to tell Tessibel she must lose her baby.
He went softly to the sick room. Whiter than the pillow upon which his cheek rested, Boy lay relaxed, breathing rapidly. Tess stood at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Anxious eyes turned to greet Young. At the bedside the man stopped a moment and looked down upon the little figure. Shocked by the imminent signs of approaching dissolution, he went over and placed an arm around the girl.
"He's awful sick," Tess whispered. "What'd the doctor say?"
"I'm afraid, Tess--I'm afraid," he answered, unable to frame the medical man's decision.
Dawning comprehension and dismay struggled in the young mother's eyes, for the agonized tones of the well-loved voice and the tender solicitude of the supporting arms had put into Young's halting words the dread import of his message.
"You mean--you mean--?" she questioned.
"Tess, darling; my pretty child," Young murmured helplessly.
The red head dropped upon his chest and for a moment Tess clung to him as though to find protection from the menacing horror. Then she freed herself, dropped on her knees by the bedside, and rested her head on Boy's little hand. During the hours of watching she had striven to steel herself against this possibility. But she couldn't understand. Boy, her cherished bit of living joy and sunshine! What would become of him? Separation? Yes, but where was he going? She didn't know. She couldn't think. A sudden shudder, a kind of voiceless sob shook her.