“He lays himself down there at the dusk hour, and I cannot get him up again. I try to persuade him to use the sofa, but it is of no use.”
“The floor will not hurt him,” said Mr. Carlyle. This was the dark shade: his boy’s failing health.
William opened his eyes. “Who’s that—papa?”
“Don’t you feel well, William?”
“Oh, yes, I’m very well; but I am tired.”
“Why do you lie down here?”
“I like lying here. Papa, that pretty white rabbit of mine is dead.”
“Indeed. Suppose you get up and tell me all about it.”
“I don’t know about it myself yet,” said William, softly rising. “The gardener told Lucy when she was out just now: I did not go; I was tired. He said—”
“What has tired you?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, taking hold of the boy’s hand.