“‘Has anything happened to the fall wheat, or to any of the horses? What is it that is hard on him?’ said I.
“He shook his head, turning to me with a strange grieved look in his eyes.
“‘It is hard that he should have to lose another of his boys,’ said he.
“‘He should have taken better care of them, and he might have kept them,’ said I.
“‘Mother,’ said Jim, ‘I think you are hard on father sometimes.’
“‘Am I? Oh, well, I guess nothing that I’m likely to say or do will ever hurt him much!’ But I knew he was right in a way.
“‘Mother, come in here. I want you to lie down on the bed, and I will sit beside you. You are all tired out. And I have got something that I want to tell you.’
“What came into my mind when I turned and looked at him was a kind of wonder what the world would be like to me when he had gone out of it; but what I said was—‘I don’t feel more tired than common. You lie down on the bed, and I’ll get Davie’s jacket and mend it while we have a little talk.’ So I got the jacket and held it, though I couldn’t put a stitch in. My hands shook so that I couldn’t thread my needle. Jim took and threaded it for me. And then he lay still, with a look of trouble on his face that made me say at last,—
“‘I think I know what you are going to say, Jim. It will be a dreadful trouble to me and your father; but you oughtn’t to be troubled about it, Jim. You are going to a better place: you are not afraid, Jim?’
“‘No, dear mother, not for myself—nor for you. You’ll get over it after awhile, and you’ll come too—you and the boys. But, mother, I want father to come too.’