The tenderness of his tone almost overcame me. I put my arm about him and we went up-stairs together, quickly, for the time was passing. We could hear grandfather's heavy breathing as we passed his door; Harold looked in wistfully, but I shook my head. Dorothy was sound asleep, her golden curls dishevelled on the pillow, her lips slightly parted, a much worn doll emerging from beneath one arm. My eyes only glanced at her, then turned to Harold's face, silently filling as I saw the evidences of his grief. He stood a moment above the bed, then stooped and kissed the rosy face; she stirred, smiling in her sleep, her hand unconsciously moving towards her doll. He kissed her again, unwisely—and the blue eyes opened wide.
"Harold," she murmured sleepily, "dear Harold—I knew you'd come home—I dreamed you were never going away any more."
The boy's lips were quivering, and we turned softly towards the door. But Dorothy, still only half awake, uttered a plaintive protest. "Don't go away, Harold," she mumbled, "get into your bed, Harold—your own beds," one half-opened eye indicating an unused couch beside her. "Say your prayers and then come—kneel down there, Harold," drawing the battered doll away from the side of the bed.
He looked at me. I motioned; and we knelt together, Harold's hand close beside the vagrant curls. His voice was faint and faltering:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
He paused, preparing to arise. "Say the rest," Dorothy murmured, "say it all, Harold."
Again he looked at me. Then his face sank between his hands and once more the broken voice went on: "God bless father, and mother, and Dorothy—and bless Harold and make him a good boy, for Christ's sake. Amen."
The little monitor seemed satisfied, slipping back again into the stream of slumber. Harold and I went gently down the stairs. I spoke no word but held him to my bosom, aching still, with such a fierce flame of longing as I had never known before. I opened the door; even then I paused to adjust the hat, so large and serious looking, on his head. He passed out, his face averted, and started running on his way—on, on, away from home, away from his mother's empty arms.
I went back to the room where his sister lay. Long I stood above the vacant bed, wondering bitterly why I had not gloried more in those old golden days when two dear tiny heads lay upon the pillows there. A few minutes after I heard the whistling of a train; I sank beside the empty bed and tried to pray—but my lips, I know not why, could frame no words except the words of Harold's prayer.