the boy was sitting up in bed, looking deathly white.
"Why, what's the matter, sonny?" said the father, bending over him, and putting a hand to his back.
"Nothing, father. I'll be all right directly. Don't you worry, father."
"Where do you feel bad, sonny?"
"In my head and stomach, father; but I'll be all right d'rectly. I've often been that way."
In a minute or two he was worse.
"For God's sake, Nils, take that boy into the kitchen, or somewhere," cried the woman, "or I'll go mad. It's enough to kill a horse. Do you want to drive me into a lunatic asylum?"
"Do you feel better now, sonny?" asked the father.
"Yes, ever so much better, father," said the boy, white and weak. "I'll be all right in a minute, father."
"You had best sleep on the sofa to-night, sonny. It's cooler there."
"No, father, I'd rather stay here; it's much cooler now."
The father fixed the bed as comfortably as he could, and, despite the boy's protest, put his own pillow under his head. Then he made a fire in the kitchen, and hung the kettle and a big billy of water over it. He was haunted by recollections of convulsions amongst the children while they were teething. He took off his boots, and was about to lie down again when the mother called—
"Nils, Nils, have you made a fire?"
"Yes, Emma."
