But it is difficult to moderate the spirits of the boy. He is playing all sorts of pranks with his father. The little lungs come near the man's ear. There is a whistling sound. The north wind has blown for two weeks. It is howling now outside the windows. "Pshaw!" the man laughs, "it is that cut-throat wind!" For orators dislike the north wind. "Pshaw! Esther!" he repeats, "I mistook the moaning of the wind in the chimney." But he is pale at the thought. "I hardly think you did, David. I can hear him wheeze over here." "You can! Come here, Davy." But the child must be caught. His eyes flash. He is all spirit. His laugh grows hoarse. "How stupid I am," thinks the man. He seizes the arch boy and clasps him in his arms. Then Lockwin takes that white and tiny wrist. He pulls his watch. In five seconds he has fifteen beats. Impossible! Wait a few minutes. "Sit still for papa. Please, Davy." The indefinable message is transmitted from the man's heart to the child's. The child is still. The animation is gone. Now, again. The watch goes so slowly. Is it going at all? Let us see about that. The watch is put to ear. Yes, it is going fast enough now. Of course it is going. Is it not a Jurgensen of the costliest brand? Well, then, we will count a full minute. "Hold still, Davy, pet." What is Congress and President now, as the wheeze settles on this child, and the north wind batters at the windows? The man looks for help to Esther. "Esther," he says, "I have counted 140 pulsations." "Is that bad for a child, David? I guess not." "I am probably mistaken. I will try again." The child lays the curly head against Lockwin's breast. The full vibration of the struggling lungs resounds through the man's frame. "The pulse is even above 140. Oh! Esther, will he have to go through that again?" "No, David, no. See, he's asleep. Put him here. You look like a ghost. Go right to bed. To-morrow will be a trying day. Davy is tired out. To be sure, he must be worse when he is tired." "Does the doctor come at all in the night?" "Why, no, of course not. It is a chronic case now, he says. It requires the same treatment." The voice is soft consoling and sympathetic. The man is as tired as Davy. "We ought not to have had the folks here," he says. "No," says Esther. "I wish the stove were up," he thinks. "I wish David were not in politics," the woman thinks. There is in and about that chamber, then, the sleep of a tired man, the whistling of a cold and hostile wind, such as few cities know, the half-sleeping vigil of a troubled woman, and the increasing shrillness of Davy's breathing.