"What is it, Tate?" asked the little girl, swinging her feet.
The invalid made no reply.
He slowly raised his head with both hands, pulled down the nightcap, and coughed and coughed and coughed, hoarsely at first, then louder, the cough tearing at his sick chest and dinning in the ears. Then he sat up, and went on coughing and clearing his throat, till he had brought up the phlegm.
The little girl continued to be absorbed in her work and to swing her feet, taking very little notice of her sick father.
The invalid smoothed the creases in the cushion, laid his head down again, and closed his eyes. He lay thus for a few minutes, then he said quite quietly:
"Leah!"
"What is it, Tate?" inquired the child again, still swinging her feet.
"Tell ... mother ... it is ... time to ... bless ... the candles...."
The little girl never moved from her seat, but shouted through the open door into the shop:
"Mother, shut up shop! Father says it's time for candle-blessing."