"My honest opinion is a grave one, Mr. Awdrey."
Awdrey laughed. There was a wild note in his merriment.
"You and Cowley can't be up to much if between you you can't manage to keep the life in a little mite like that," he said.
"The issues of life and death belong to higher than us," answered the doctor slowly.
Awdrey looked at him again, gave an incredulous smile, and went into the sick-room.
During the entire night the father sat up with the boy. The sick child did not know either parent. His voice grew weaker and weaker—the struggle to breathe became greater. When he had strength to speak, he babbled continually of his playthings, of his walk by the Serpentine the previous day, and the little ships as they sailed on the water. Presently he took a fancy into his head that he was in one of the tiny ships, and that he was sailing away from shore. He laughed with feeble pleasure, and tried to clap his burning hands. Toward morning his baby notes were scarcely distinguishable. He dozed off for a little, then woke again, and began to talk—he talked now all the time of his father.
"'Ittle boy 'ove dad," he said. "'Ittle Arthur 'oves dad best of anybody—best of all."
Awdrey managed to retain one of the small hands in his. The child quieted down then, gave him a look of long, unutterable love, and about six in the morning, twenty-four hours after the seizure had declared itself, the little spirit passed away. Awdrey, who was kneeling by the child's cot, still holding his hand, did not know when this happened. There was a sudden bustle round the bed, he raised his head with a start, and looked around him.
"What is the matter? Is he better?" he asked. He looked anxiously at the sunken face of the dead child. He noticed that the hurried breathing had ceased.
"Come away with, me, Robert," said his wife.