been his plan. And thus far he had succeeded--succeeded so
wonderfully that he began now, in the face of his own illness,
and of what he feared would come of it, to doubt the wisdom of
that planning.

As he looked at the boy's rapt face, he remembered David's
surprised questioning at the first dead squirrel he had found in
the woods. David was six then.

"Why, daddy, he's asleep, and he won't wake up!" he had cried.
Then, after a gentle touch: "And he's cold--oh, so cold!"

The father had hurried his son away at the time, and had evaded
his questions; and David had seemed content. But the next day the
boy had gone back to the subject. His eyes were wide then, and a
little frightened.

"Father, what is it to be--dead?"

"What do you mean, David?"

"The boy who brings the milk--he had the squirrel this morning.
He said it was not asleep. It was--dead."

"It means that the squirrel, the real squirrel under the fur, has
gone away, David."

"Where?"

"To a far country, perhaps."