"He's going to join them," said the doctor abruptly. "There's not the slightest hope—at least, I think not—but I'll do my best. He's got cold in every bit of him."
Jim groaned. Oh! to have that last fateful Monday back again—to live over again these last weeks of self-indulgence. And now it was too late—too late!
But the doctor was pouring out medicines and directions, and this was no time for vain regrets.
"You'll sit up with him," he said, and he looked directly at Jim; "and," he glanced at Jane this time, "I'll send the nurse. She'll set you going and look in the first thing in the morning."
But there was no need. When, having seen the gravity of the case, the nurse knocked gently at Jim's door, before six o'clock in the morning, the little life had fled, and Jim was kneeling broken-hearted by the little bed, Harry's sweet face still pillowed on his shoulder. A soft smile lingered on the little lips and he seemed asleep, but Jim and the nurse knew better.
He was dead.
As Tom had said, Jesus had got the beautiful home ready, and He had sent for Harry.
It was on this same morning that, by the first post, Denys received a letter from Mixham.
She tore it open eagerly, for any letter nowadays might bring news of Maud, but she laid it down again listlessly.