To the mother the days were dragged over the field of time like the dead body of an animal. In misery lest her son should cause offense, she watched him, and, at table, hushed him. The proprietor's wife scolded him, and at last the little fellow's spirit was cowed. He crept through the hall, and, on tiptoe, to keep from wearing out the carpets, he moved through the house. He would shrink when he saw the proprietor's wife, and in his sleep he muttered apologies and declared that he would be good. One morning he awoke with a burning fever.
"I wish you would come in and see my little boy," said the mother, addressing the proprietor's wife. She went in. The little fellow looked at her, and, as a deeply-troubled expression crossed his face, said:
"I won't wear out the carpet."
"Why, no, you won't hurt the carpet. Get up and run on it all you want to."
"I can't, now."
"But you can after awhile."
Days of suffering; nights of dread. Everything had been done and the doctor had gone home. A heart-broken woman buried her face in the bedclothes. The proprietor's wife, with tears streaming down her face, stood looking upon a wasted face which had, only a short time before, beamed with mischief.
"Little boy," she said, "dear little fellow, you are going to leave us. You are going to heaven."
"No," he faintly replied, "I will be in the way, and they won't let me laugh there."
A long silence followed, and then the old woman whispered: