The woman takes the sick child in her lap and sits near the stove. The difficulties of the night return.
Why should the man's eyes be riveted on that captive's form! Ah! What a pitiful look is that on golden-head's face! The respiration is once more impeded. The little ribs start into sight. The little bellows of the body sucks with all its force. The breath comes at last. There is no complaint. There is the mute grandeur of Socrates.
"It is in us all!" the man cries.
"What is it in us all, David?" asks the woman.
"Cover him quickly, Esther, my dear," the man gasps, and buries his face in the pillow. "God of mercy, wipe that picture out of my memory!" he prays.
CHAPTER VII
THE PRIMARIES
The sun of Friday morning shines brightly. The sparrows chirp, the wagons rattle, the boys cry the papers, and the household smiles.
The peddling huckster's son is not surprised. He knew Dr. Floddin would cure Davy.
The cook buys heavily. They'll eat now. "Mind what I'll fix for that darlint to-day!" she threatens.