Dr. Thorne (in great agitation). Did Laddie die?
Mrs. Fayth (solemnly). Yes, Laddie died.
Dr. Thorne. Did something really ail him that night—that most miserable night?... Oh, poor Helen! Poor, poor Helen! (His face falls into his hands. His frame shakes with soundless, tearless sobs.)
Laddie (creeps into his lap; lays his head on his father’s neck). Hilloa, Papa! (Pats his father on the cheek.)
[Exit Mrs. Fayth silently, with emotion.
Dr. Thorne (raises his head, showing his stormy face. Clasps the child, hesitatingly at first, then passionately; holds him off at arm’s length; scans him closely; draws him back; kisses his little hands, then his face; clasps him again). My little son! Papa’s little boy! My son! My little son! (Smiles naturally for the first time since he died; then with sudden recollection, he cries out.) Oh, what will your poor mother do without you?
Laddie. You homesick, Papa?
Dr. Thorne. My little son! (Caresses the child with a touching timidity, broken by bursts of wild affection. The child responds warmly, laughing for joy.)
End of Scene I.