grasped my own. "Go on with the reading," he
said drowsily--"Guess I'm going to sleep now--but
you go right on with the story.--Good night!" His
hand fumbled lingeringly a moment, then was withdrawn
and folded with the other on his breast.

I read on in a lower tone an hour longer, then
paused again to look at my companion. He was
sleeping heavily, and although the features in their
repose appeared unusually pale, a wholesome perspiration,
as it seemed, pervaded all the face, while the
breathing, though labored, was regular. I bent
above him to lower the pillow for his head, and the
movement half aroused him, as I thought at first,
for he muttered something as though impatiently;
but listening to catch his mutterings, I knew that
he was dreaming. "It's what killed father," I heard
him say. "And it's what killed Tom," he went on,
in a smothered voice; "killed both--killed both! It
shan't kill me; I swear it. I could bottle it--case
after case--and never touch a drop. If you never
take the first drink, you'll never want it. Mother
taught me that. What made her ever take the first?
Mother! mother! When I get to be a man, I'll
buy her all the fine things she used to have when
father was alive. Maybe I can buy back the old
home, with the roses up the walk and the sunshine
slanting in the hall."