"Then I'll pray," was the quick response. "I never prayed in my life, but I will now; like enough I can save him yet. You folks think he can hear everything that's said, don't you?"
Strangely moved as well as startled, her visitor answered her only by a bow. The shaking hands were clasped, and in a clear firm voice the sick woman spoke:
"O Lord, don't let Tode ever drink a drop of rum!"
Then the little boy crouching in the corner, rose up and came quickly over to his mother.
"Keep away, Tode," said the woman at the foot of the bed, speaking in an awe-stricken voice. "Keep away, don't touch her; she ain't talking to you."
Not so much as a glance did the mother bestow upon her boy, but repeated over and over again the sentence, "O Lord, don't let Tode ever touch a drop of rum."
"Is that the way?" she asked, suddenly turning her sharp bright eyes full on Mr. Birge.
"Is that the way they pray? are them the right kind of words to use?"
"My poor friend," began he, but she interrupted him impatiently.
"Just tell me if that's the name you call him by when you pray?"