"It's not very fur now," said Jim.

The poor, wandering mind was trying to realize the heavenly scenes that
it believed were about to burst upon its vision. The quiet, sunlit
water, the trees still bare but bourgeoning, the songs of birds, the
blue sky across which fleecy clouds were peacefully floating, the
breezes that kissed his fevered cheek, the fragrance of the bordering
evergreens, and the electric air that entered his lungs so long
accustomed to the poisonous fetor of his cell, were well calculated to
foster his delusion, and to fill his soul with a peace to which it had
long been a stranger. An exquisite languor stole upon him, and under the
pressure of his long fatigue, his eyelids fell, and he dropped into a
quiet slumber.

When the boy saw that his father was asleep, he crept back to Jim and
said:

"Mr. Fenton, I don't think it's right for you to tell papa such lies."

"Call me Jim. The Doctor called me 'Mr. Fenton,' and it 'most killed
me."

"Well, Jim."

"Now, that sounds like it. You jest look a here, my boy. Your pa ain't
livin' in this world now, an' what's true to him is a lie to us, an'
what's true to us is a lie to him. I jest go into his world and say
what's true whar he lives. Isn't that right?"