"Is—is he better?" he asked.
"He is asleep," I answered, moodily.
The poet sighed.
"Ah! that's good, that's good."
For a little while we talked, the aimless, useless talk of unnerved men, and at last the poet suggested we should go upstairs.
As I held the candle over Tommy's bed we could see that the flush had faded from his cheeks, and as he lay there he might well have been a healthy cherub on some earthly holiday.
I think the sight cheered us all, and in some measure restored our hope.
The vicar turned to us, gravely.
"There is one thing we can all do," he said; "we ought to have thought of it first, and it is surely the best."
As we parted, the poet turned to me.