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."