certain pleasure to his voice,—to that unaccustomed intonation of affection and sorrow.
Thus passed the second day, and the third, and the fourth, with slight improvements or unexpected changes for the worse; and the boy was so absorbed in all his cares, that he hardly nibbled a bit of bread and cheese twice a day, when the sister brought it to him, and hardly saw what was going on around him, —the dying patients, the sudden running up of the sisters at night, the moans and despairing gestures of visitors,—all those doleful scenes of hospital life, which on any other occasion would have shocked and alarmed him.
Hours, days passed, and still he was there with his daddy; watchful, wistful, trembling at every sigh and at every look, shaken continually between a hope which relieved his mind and a discouragement which froze his heart.
On the fifth day the sick man suddenly grew worse. The doctor, on being questioned, shook his head, as much as to say that all was over, and the boy flung himself on a chair and burst out sobbing. But one thing comforted him. In spite of the fact that he was worse, the sick man seemed to be slowly regaining a little consciousness. He stared at the lad with increasing attention, and, with an expression which grew in sweetness, would take his drink and medicine from no one but him, and made strenuous efforts with his lips with greater frequency, as though he were trying to pronounce some word. He did it so plainly sometimes that his son grasped his arm violently, inspired
