The old man›s lips were working under his stained beard. He turned to the lawyer with timid deference: “Phelps and the rest are comin› back to set up with Harve, ain›t they?” he asked. “Thank›ee, Jim, thank›ee.” He brushed the hair back gently from his son›s forehead. “He was a good boy, Jim; always a good boy. He was ez gentle ez a child and the kindest of ‹em all—only we didn›t none of us ever onderstand him.” The tears trickled slowly down his beard and dropped upon the sculptor›s coat.
“Martin, Martin! Oh, Martin! come here,” his wife wailed from the top of the stairs. The old man started timorously: “Yes, Annie, I›m coming.” He turned away, hesitated, stood for a moment in miserable indecision; then reached back and patted the dead man›s hair softly, and stumbled from the room.
“Poo
