The effort of speaking seemed to exhaust the last remains of his feeble powers; for he lay for some moments with closed eyes; then suddenly they flashed open again, he turned his head slightly upon his mother’s bosom. “Kiss me, mamma,” he said; and with that kiss upon his lips Freddy fell asleep like a tired child. It was not, as might have been expected, the mother who seemed to feel most deeply the blow of Freddy’s death. It was true that Alice had no time to grieve, she who was now the only bread-winner. Besides, she had a strong reason for controlling her sorrow, in anxiety for her husband, who sat day after day in the great chair in which he had seen his child die, motionless, tearless, silent—as silent as the grave wherein that child was lying. What were his thoughts, even the wife who loved him so well did not dare to speculate; but that they were such as, if dwelt upon, would unhinge both thought and reason, she felt very little doubt. “Can _you_ say anything to comfort him?” she asked of Ernest Clare. “I cannot; his sorrow is too terrible; and I, who have just escaped the hopelessness of it, do not dare to meddle.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “I will try,” he answered; “that is, if he will see me.” Dr. Richards made no difficulty about this. “Let him come,” he said; “he’s not as bad as some of his cloth.” And, in truth, Mr. Clare made no effort to convince the bereaved father that his grief was the punishment of sin; he did not offer to pray with him, neither did he quote a single text; but, after a cordial hand-clasp, sat down quietly beside him, and began the conversation in a low voice, but a matter-of-course tone. “I am very sorry I was prevented from being with Freddy at the last.” “It was not your fault,” replied the doctor in a hard, cold voice. “The end came suddenly and unexpectedly, and there was no time to send for you. You had been most kind and attentive; and I am glad to have an opportunity to thank you. I suppose Freddy had all the consolations of religion, whatever they may be worth.” “They are worth much to me and to him,” said Mr. Clare gently. The doctor waved his hand impatiently. “I am not up to an argument to-day, Clare,” he said. “No, I suppose not. You must miss our dear boy at every moment!” “He was my last patient,” said the doctor with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “I was physician and nurse too, you know, and now my occupation’s gone! I say, Clare, what fools those fellows are who speak of a man’s immortality consisting in his children who live after him, or in some work of his that is remembered. Here am I, getting on towards sixty, who have done nothing, and have no children to carry on my name. It’s a poor old show for my ‘joining the choir invisible,’—eh, Clare?” “I don’t believe you care very much for that,” said Mr. Clare. “No, you are right; not when the pinch comes,” said the doctor gloomily.