"Hank, I'm not going to get well."

"Oh, yes, you are, and don't you let any such nonsense enter your
head."

"It's a good ways from nonsense, I tell you. I know what I'm talking
about; I know just as well as can be that I'm going to die--now you
wait till I get through. It can't be helped, and there's no use in
taking on over it. I did want to see my father and mother and sister,
but it can't be helped."

DeGolyer was on his knees beside the bed. He attempted to speak, but
his utterance was choked; and the tears in his eyes blurred to
spectral dimness the only human being whom he held warm in his heart.

"Hank, while I am able to talk I've got a great favor to ask of you.
And you'll grant it, won't you?"

"Yes," DeGolyer Bobbed.

For a few moments the sick man lay in silence. He fumbled about and
found DeGolyer's hand. "My father and mother are waiting for me," he
said. "They have been raised into a new life. If I never come it will
be worse than if I had never been found, for they'll have a new grief
to bear, and it may be heavier than the first. They must have a son,
Hank."

"My dear boy, what do you mean?"