on—"how is it possible that I could have forgotten him?"
The boy's mother met him outside the house and drew him into an adjoining room, silently, for her tears were falling. He sank into the first chair.
"Is he so ill?" he asked, under his trembling breath.
"I'm afraid he's going to be very ill. And to see him in so much trouble—"
"What is the matter? In God's name, has any thing happened to him?"
She turned her face away to hide her grief. "He said he would tell you himself. Oh, if I've been too hard with him! But I did it for the best. I didn't know until the doctor came that he was going to be ill, or I would have waited. Do anything you can to quiet him—anything he should ask you to do," she implored, and pointed towards the door of the room in which the boy lay.
Conscience-stricken and speechless, the parson opened it and entered.
The small white bed stood against the wall beneath an open window, and one bright-headed sunflower, growing against the house outside, leaned in and fixed its kind face anxiously upon the sufferer's.
The figure of the boy was stretched along the edge of the bed, his cheek on one hand and his eyes turned steadfastly towards the middle of the room, where, on a table, the violin lay exposed to view
He looked quickly towards the door as the parson entered, and an expression of relief passed over his face.
"Why, David," said the parson, chidingly, and crossing to the bed with a bright smile. "Sick? This will
