'When the days begin to lengthen,
The cold begins to strengthen.'
"I do wish dear little Willy would stay in his bed, nicely 'happed' in'" (happed is the Scotch word for "tucked"), "but I suppose he is just as well off by the bar-room fire. It's lucky he doesn't take a fancy to wander anywhere else, and we can always tell where he is."
"But, mother, I haven't heard him pass through the south entry,—have you? I always know when he goes into the bar-room by the quick little click of the latch."
"So do I," replied her mother; "but now I think of it, I haven't heard him to-night. I can't help hoping he is going to lie still."
There was nothing more said for a little while. They were both very busy finishing off a homespun suit for Willy. How should they suspect that a strange stupor was fast stealing over their little darling? Who was going to tell them that even now he was entering the valley of the shadow of death? Who? I cannot answer that question; I only know that just then Mrs. Parlin, who was going to bed in about fifteen minutes, and did not like to leave her work yet, suddenly dropped the jacket, which was almost done, and said,—
"Love, I guess I'll go in and look at that child. He may have tossed the clothes off and got a little chilly."
Then she arose from her chair slowly,—she was so large that she always moved slowly,—took one of the candles, and went into the kitchen.
As she opened the bedroom door—Well, I cannot tell you; you will have to imagine that white, white face, pressed close to the pillow, that limp little figure, stretched under the coverlet, in awful stillness.
"O God, is it too late?" thought Mrs. Parlin. She saw the charcoal; she understood it all in an instant.
"Lydia, come quick!"