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.

The man is crooning. He is happy with his dead.