Mr. Sage spoke up, dryly. “It will be quite all right for you to die, gentlemen, whenever the good Lord thinks it most convenient. You seem to forget that I am one of Oliver October’s self-appointed guardians. Permit me to remind you that I will still be a mere youth of sixty when he reaches the age of thirty. So you need not feel the slightest compunction or hesitancy about dying.” He was stared at very hard by two of his listeners. “I wish my Ma was here,” said Oliver October, his lip trembling. Despite the sincere if voluble protestations of the three visitors, he still felt miserably in need of a friend and comforter. He could not conceive of his father taking him in his arms and holding him tight; there wasn’t anything soft and warm and cushiony about his father; only his mother could whisper and croon in his ear and snuggle him up close when he was sick or frightened, and she was gone. “Amen to that,” said Mr. Sage, fervently. “Amen!” repeated Mr. Link in his most professional voice. Mr. Sikes coughed uncomfortably and then put on his hat. “Well, good night,” said he. “Sleep tight, sonny.” “Say ‘thank you’ to your Uncle Joe, Oliver,” said Mr. Baxter huskily, and then, without rime or reason, gave vent to his nervous cackle. “Thank you, Uncle Joe,” muttered Oliver. Mr. Sage laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Do you say your prayers every night, Oliver?” “Yes, sir—I do.” “Well—er—if Brother Baxter doesn’t mind and if you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I will go upstairs with Oliver and—and listen to his prayer.” A little later on, the tall, spare pastor sat on the side of young Oliver’s trundle bed in the room across the hall from old Oliver’s and next to the one in which Annie Sharp, the hired girl, was already sound asleep. The boy had murmured his “Now I lay me” and, for good measure, the Lord’s Prayer. Mr. Sage leaned over and, lowering his voice, said—but not until he had satisfied himself that no one was listening outside the door: “You believe I am a good man, don’t you, Oliver—a very good man?” “Yes, sir. You’re a preacher. You got to be good.” “Ahem! Quite so. You don’t believe I could tell a lie, do you?” “No, sir.”