Mr. James Bowdoin looked at his father inquiringly.
Mr. Bowdoin laughed aloud. "She hadn't a good night, she says."
"Dear me," said the younger man, "I'm sorry."
"Yes. I'd a bad cold, and I spoke very hoarsely when I went to bed. And in the night she woke up and heard a croupy sound. It was this," and Mr. Bowdoin produced a compressible rubber ball with a squeak in it. "'James,' said she—you know how she says 'James'?"
Mr. James Bowdoin admitted he had heard the intonation described.
"'James,' says she, 'is that you?' I only squeaked the ball, which I had under the bedclothes. 'James, are you ill?' 'It's my chest,' I squeaked faintly, and squeezed the ball again. 'I think I'm going to die,' said I, and I squeaked it every time I breathed." And Mr. Bowdoin gave audible demonstration of the squeak of his rubber toy. "Well, she was very remorseful, and she got up to send for the doctor; and faith, I had to get up and go downstairs after her and speak in my natural voice before she'd believe I wasn't in the last gasp of a croup. But she won't speak herself this morning," added the old gentleman rather ruefully. "What's the matter here?"
"Jamie has been down, and he says his son-in-law has decided to leave the bank."
"Dear me! dear me!" The old gentleman's face grew grave again. "Nothing wrong in his accounts, I hope?"
"He says that he has decided to go to New York to live."
"Go to New York! What'll become of the new house?"