A little girl came in, crying, one day.
"What is the trouble?" said the teacher, tenderly, as he leaned over and put his arm around her.
"My father is sick," said the child, sobbing.
"Very sick?" the teacher inquired.
For a moment she could not answer, but stood shaken with sobs.
"The doctor says he can't live," said she, brokenly.
A solemn stillness fell in the little schoolroom. The teacher lifted the child and held her close to his broad breast a moment.
"Be brave, little girl," said he, patting her head gently.
"Doctors don't always know. He may be better to-morrow."
He took the child to her seat, and sat beside her and whispered a moment, his mouth close to her ear. And what he said, none knew, save the girl herself, who ceased to cry in a moment but never ceased to remember it.
A long time he sat, with his arm around her, questioning the classes. He seemed to have taken his place between her and the dark shadow.