"No, my dear, dear boy. I am quite well, quite well at least in body. I have a care on my mind that makes me look a little sad, but don't notice it, Harold, it will pass."
"You have a care on your mind!" said Harold in a tone of surprise. "I know mother often, often has, but I did not think you had cares, father."
"How can I help it, boy, sometimes?"
"I thought you gave your cares to God. I don't understand a bit how you manage it, but I remember quite well your telling mother that you gave your cares away to God."
The father turning round suddenly, stooped down and kissed the boy.
"Thank you, my son, for reminding me. Yes, I will give this care too to God, it shall not trouble me."
Then the two began to talk, and the son's little wasted hand was held in the father's. The father's face had recovered its serenity, and the little son, though he coughed continually, looked happy.
"Father," he said suddenly, "there's just one thing I'm sorry for."
"What's that, my boy?"
"There were a whole lot of other things, father; about my never having gone to live in the country, and those gypsy teas that mother told me of. You light a fire outside, you know, father, and boil the kettle on it, and have your tea in the woods and the fields. It must be just delicious. I was sorry about that, for I've never been to one, never even to one all my life long; and then there's the pretty lady—I do want to see my pretty lady once again. I was sorry about those things all day, but not now. 'Tisn't any of those things makes me so sorry now."