He bowed his head over the sleeping Shiloh.
“Oh, God,” he prayed—“You, who made the world an' said it might have a childhood—remember what it means to have it filched away. It's like stealin' the bud from the rose-bush, the dew from the grass, hope from the heart of man. Take our manhood—O God—it is strong enough to stand it—an' it has been took from many a strong man who has died with a smile on his lips. Take our old age—O God—for it's jus' a memory of Has Beens. But let them not steal that from any life that makes all the res' of it beautiful with dreams of it. If, by some inscrutable law which we po' things can't see through, stealin' in traffic an' trade must go on in the world, O God, let them steal our purses, but not our childhood. Amen.”
CHAPTER XIV
UNCLE DAVE'S WILL
The whistle of the mill had scarcely awakened Cottontown the next morning before Archie B., hatless and full of excitement, came over to the Bishop with a message from his mother. No one was astir but Mrs. Watts, and she was sweeping vigorously.
“What's the matter, Archie B.?” asked the old man when he came out.
“Uncle Dave Dickey is dyin' an' maw told me to run over an' tell you to hurry quick if you wanted to see the old man die.”