“Thank God!” is the thought of the father.

The child smiles upon his mother.  He smiles upon Richard Tarbelle.

“How can he smile on papa, when papa was to cut that white and narrow throat?” It is David Lockwin putting his unhappy cheek beside the little face.

Now, if all these flaxseed rags and this stramonium sprayer and pan could be cleared out!  If it were only daylight, so we could see Davy plainer!

Then comes a low cry from the kitchen.  It is the forlorn mother, detailing the treacherous siege of membraneous croup.

David Lockwin can only think of the hours last night, while Davy was in Gethsemane.  The cradle song was the death song.  The doctors sit in the back room.  Esther holds the little hands and talks to the ears that have gone past hearing.  “There is a sublime patience in women,” thinks Lockwin, for he cannot wait.

“Inconceivable!  Inconceivable!  Davy never at the window again!  Take away my miserable life, oh, just nature!  Just God!”

The white lips are moving: 

“Books, papa!  J-o-s-e-p—­”

“Yes, Davy.  Josephus.  Papa knows.  Thank you, Davy.  I can’t say good-bye, Davy, for I hope I can go with you!”

The man’s head is in the pillow.  “Oh, to take a little child like this, and send him out ahead of us—­ahead of the strong man.  Is it not hard, Richard Tarbelle?”

“Mr. Lockwin, as I said, I am not a rich man, but I would give a thousand dollars—­a thousand dollars—­I guess you had better look at him, Mr. Lockwin.”

Davy is dead.

Never yet has that father showered on the child such a wealth of love as lies in that father’s heart.  It would spoil the boy, and Lockwin, himself almost a spoiled son, has had an especial horror of parental over-indulgence.

So, therefore, he is now free to take that little form in his arms.  The women will rid it of the nightgown and put on a cleaner garment.  And while they do this act, the man will kiss that form, beginning at the soles of the feet.

                 —­Those holy fields
  Over whose acres walked those blessed feet
  Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed
  For our advantage on the bitter cross.—­

Why do these lines course through the man’s brain?  Curses on that flaxseed and that vile drug which made these fields so hard for these little feet.  Any way, the man may gather this clay in his arms.  No one else shall touch it!  It is a long way down these stairs!  Never at the window again, Davy.  “I would give a thousand dollars.”  Well, God bless Richard Tarbelle.  If it were a longer distance to carry this load, it would be far better!  Light up the back parlor!  Let us have that ironing-board!  Fix the chairs thus!  He must have a good book.  It shall be Josephus.  Oh, God!  “Josephus, papa.”  Yes, yes, Davy.  Put curly-head on Josephus.