It is a poor, wheezing little cry, barely distinguishable. How long it
has been coming to the understanding of those terrible captors cannot
be known.

How eagerly does the shapely little hand clutch the spoon. "Another,"
he nods. It is swallowed. The golden head is hidden in the couch.

And David Lockwin sits trembling on the bed, gazing in hatred on the
medicine that has entered between him and his foundling.

"Papa had to do it! Papa had to do it! You will forgive him, pet?"
So the woman whispers.

There is no answer.

The man sprays the air. "You won't blame papa, will you, Davy?"

The answer is eager. "No, please! Please, papa!"

It is a reign of terror erected on the government of love. It is chaos
and asthma together.

"It is a horrible deed!" David Lockwin comments inwardly.

"Mother will be so glad," says Esther. She pities the man. She would
not have been so cruel. She would have used gentler means, as she had
been doing for twenty-eight hours! And Davy would have taken no
medicine.

The room is at eighty degrees. The spray goes incessantly. The