Uncle Geoffrey had carried him from the room when father's last attack had come on. Jack was left in charge of him, and the rest of us were gathered in the sick room. I was the first to leave when all was over, for I thought of Dot and trembled; but as I opened the door there he was, crouched down in a little heap at the entrance, with Jack sobbing beside him. "I took away his crutch, but he crawled all the way on his hands and knees," whispered Jack; and then Allan came out and stood beside me. "Poor little fellow!" he muttered; and Dot lifted his miserable little white face, and held out his arms. "Take me in," he implored. "Father's dead, for I heard you all crying; but I must kiss him once more." "I don't think it will hurt him," observed Allan, in a low voice. "He will only imagine all sorts of horrors--and he looks so peaceful," motioning toward the closed door. "I will be so good," implored the poor child, "if you only take me in." And Allan, unable to resist any longer, lifted him in his arms. I did not go in, for I could not have borne it. Carrie told me afterward that Allan cried like a child when Dot nestled up to the dead face and began kissing and stroking it. "You are my own father, though you look so different," he whispered. "I wish you were not so cold. I wish you could look and speak to me--I am your little boy Dot--you were always so fond of Dot, father. Let me go with you; I don't want to live any longer without you," and so on, until Uncle Geoffrey made Allan take him away. Oh, how good Allan was to him! He lay down by his side all night, soothing him and talking to him, for Dot never slept. The next day we took turns to be with him, and so on day after day; but I think Dot liked Allan best. "He is most like father," he said once, which, perhaps, explained the preference; but then Allan had so much tact and gentleness. Fred did not understand him at all; he called him odd and uncanny, which displeased us both. One evening I had been reading to mother, and afterward I went up to Dot. He had been very feverish and had suffered much all day, and Allan had scarcely left him; but toward evening he had grown quieter. I found Jack beside him; they were making up garlands for the grave; it was Dot's only occupation just now. "Look here, Essie," he cried, eagerly. "Is not this a splendid wreath? We are making it all of pansies--they were father's favorite flowers. He always called them floral butterflies. Fancy a wreath of butterflies!" and Dot gave a weak little laugh. It was a very ghost of a laugh, but it was his first, and I hailed it joyfully. I praised the quaint stiff wreath. In its way it was picturesque. The rich hues of the pansies blended well--violet and gold; it was a pretty idea, laying heartsease on the breast that would never know anxiety again.