"This return and rapid rise of fever at this late day looks very bad," said the physician, gloomily, "and you insisted on knowing the truth."
"You ever were an honest friend, Orton; I know you have done your best for me, and, although worked to death, have come to see me often. I leave my family in your charge. God grant I may be the only one to suffer. May I see the children?"
"Yes, a few moments; but I do not wish them to be in this room long."
"Don't go just yet, Orton. I—to tell you the truth, I feel that dying is rather serious business, and you and I have always taken life somewhat as a good joke. Call the girls."
They came and stood by their mother. Amy was beyond tears, but little Bertha could not understand it, and with difficulty could be kept from clambering upon the bed to her father.
"Amy's naughty, she keeps me away from you, papa. I've been wanting to see you all day, and Amy won't let me."
The doctor and Haldane retired to the hallway.
There was an unutterable look in the dying man's eyes as he fixed them on the little group.
"How can I leave you? how can I leave you?" he groaned.
At this the child began to cry, and again struggled to reach her father. She was evidently his idol, and he prayed, "Wherever I go—whatever becomes of me, God grant I may see that child again."