“Who’s that?” said the dying man sharply. “I can’t see. Only you, Clairy—who’s that? Father?”
“My son!—my boy! Fred, speak to me—forgive—”
There was a terrible silence in the room as the old man’s piteous cry died out, and he sank upon his knees on the other side of the narrow bed, and laid his wrinkled forehead upon his son’s breast.
“Forgive?—you, father?” said Fred at last, in tones that told how rapidly the little life remaining was ebbing away. “It’s all right, sir—all a mistake—my life—one long blunder. Take care of Clairy here—and poor little May.”
“My boy—the mistake has been mine,” groaned Denville, “and I am punished for it now.”
“No, no—old father—take care—Clairy here.”
He seemed to doze for a few minutes, and Denville rose to go and ask the surgeon if anything could be done.
“Nothing but make his end as peaceful as you can. Ah, my lad, you here?”
“Yes,” said Morton. “How is he?”
“Alive,” said the surgeon bluntly; and he turned away.