“‘Keep,’” his father supplied.
“‘Keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.’” He looked at his father expectantly. “You didn’t say, ‘Amen,’ papa. Mamma always says it.”
“‘Amen,’” repeated Donald gravely, as he kissed the boy’s tousled head.
“Do you think, papa, if I pray the Lord to send mamma back, she will come?”
“I think she might, dear. When you go to bed, you must wish that she will just as hard as you can.”
“And then to-morrow she will be here?” cried the child eagerly.
“I—I hope so, dear. Are you ready now?” He rose and led the little fellow toward the bedroom door.
“Yes, papa. I’m not afraid now. Good-night.” He put up his face to be kissed.
“Good-night, dear.” The father kissed him almost reverently, and, after the door was closed, stood for a long time gazing at it—his face twitching. Then he threw himself into a chair, rested his arms upon the desk, and buried his face in his hands, in a paroxysm of sobbing. It was the first time in many years that Donald Rogers had cried.