"It's some time since you've been to see me, John," Deborah continued.
"I know it is," he answered. And then with a quick jerk of his head, "He's been pretty bad," he said. Roger looked at the man on the bed. With his thin waxen features drawn, the man was gasping for each breath.
"What's the matter?" Roger whispered.
"Lungs," said the young woman harshly. "You needn't bother to speak so low. He can't hear you anyhow. He's dying. He's been dying weeks."
"Why didn't you let me know of this?" Deborah asked gently.
"Because I knew what you'd want to do—take him off to a hospital! And I ain't going to have it! I promised him he could die at home!"
"I'm sorry," Deborah answered. There was a moment's silence, and the baby whimpered in its sleep. One child had gone to his father's bed and was frowning at his agony as though it were a tiresome sight.
"Are any of them coughing?" Deborah inquired.
"No," said the woman sharply.
"Yes, they are, two of 'em," John cheerfully corrected her.