He rose, wheeled about and went to the door. Paused. Still with that brooding dark look on his face he turned to her again.
"If my death would make it any easier for Frank, I wouldn't hesitate a moment. I'm a failure. It wouldn't matter. But I feel that by living and watching over him I'm standing between my boy's development as an individual, and the subtlest, softest peril that could possibly threaten him. I would rather he died, if he cannot bring about what he wills for his own development. As for me, I ... I am a dead man walking futilely among the living."
With that, he swung out of the room.
Miss Beaver knelt by the boy's bed, murmuring persuasively to him as she strove to make him check his hysterical sobs.
"Frankie, you really must stop crying. You're too big a chap to cry and it only makes you worse. If you're a good boy to-day and eat your food, I'll let your grandfather bring the little dog tonight," she promised rashly.
The sheet turned down and Frank's reddened face peered at her plaintively.
"That was my great-grandfather," he assured her gravely.
"Well, great or great-great, it's all the same," she conceded good-humoredly.
"Do you really think he'll bring Spot tonight?"