"Do you suffer, Davy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, well, he does not know what we mean. Get him to take the
medicine, Mr. Lockwin. It is your duty."

Duty! Alas! Is not David Lockwin responding to both love and duty
already? Is it not a response such as he did not believe he could make?

The doctor goes. The man works the rubber bulb until his fingers grow
paralytic. Esther sleeps from exhaustion. The child gets oversprayed.
The man stirs the flaxseed--how soon the stuff dries out! He adds
water. He rinses his mouth. He arranges the mash on the cloths. It
is cold already, and he puts it on the sheet-iron of the stove.

But Davy is still. How to get the poultices changed? The man feels
about the blessed little body. A tide of tenderness sweeps through his
frame. Alas! the poultices are cold again, and hard.

They are doing no good.

"Esther, I beg pardon, but will you assist me with the flaxseed?"

"Certainly, David. Have I slept? Why did you not call me sooner?
Here, lamby! Here, lamby! Let mamma help you."

The poultices are to be heated again. The woman concludes the affair.
The man sits stretched in a chair, hands deep in pockets, one ankle
over the other, chin deep on his breast.