“Yes, dad,” said his son. “Going in. The inner circle, you know.”
“The—inner—circle—” echoed his father. “Warmth—light—love—Now—I think—I'll sleep—Good night—Barry—Oh—my boy,—you—don't quite—know—Kiss me—Barry—”
Barry kissed him on the lips.
“So—Good—night—”
A deep breath he took; another—Barry waited for the next, but there was not another.
He laid his father down and looked into his quiet face, touched even now with the noble stateliness of death. He put his arms about the unresponsive form, and his face to the cheek still warm.
“Dad, oh, dad,” he whispered. “Do you know—do you know—Oh, God, tell him how I love him. Tell him! Tell him! I never could.”
The little V. A. D. came softly and stood looking from a distance. Then coming to the bedside, she laid her hand upon the head and then the heart of the dead man. Then she drew back, and beckoning to an orderly, they placed a screen about the cot. She let her eyes rest for a moment or two upon the kneeling boy, then went softly away.
Death was to her an all too familiar thing. She had often seen it unmoved, but to-night, as she walked away, the brown eyes could not hold their tears.