"But the doctor's both horses is sick," insists Davy.
"Bravo! professor, bravo!"
Now comes the sweetest of cradle-songs, the professor with damper on his strings, the professor's wife scarcely touching the piano.
The strain ends. The man is in tears--not the tears of an orator. He glances at the child and the great eyes are likewise dim. "Kiss me, Davy!"
But it is as if Davy were too hard at work with an article. He must break from the room, the man suddenly wishing that the child could find its chief relief in him.
"Yet I made him take the medicine," thinks the man, in terror of that night.
The professor will take some little thing to eat--a glass of beer, perhaps--but he must not stay.
They go below, where Davy has told the cook of the extraordinary professor who can scarcely speak English. Davy has asked him if he could spell Josephus. "After all," says Davy, "I'd be ashamed to play so loud if I couldn't spell Josephus. It hurt my head."
"Yes, you darlint," says the cook; "here's some ice cream. I don't want you to wait. Eat it now."
"I can't eat anything but medicine," says Davy, "and I have to eat that or papa wouldn't love me. Do you think he loves me?"