"Then for God's sake make me a cup of tea. I must have it after all this."
He hurried up the kettle—she calling every few minutes to know if "that kettle was boiling yet." He took her a cup of tea, and then a second. She said the tea was slush, and as sweet as syrup, and called for more, and hot water.
"How do you feel now, sonny?" he asked as he lay down on the sofa once more.
"Much better, father. You can put out the light now if you like."
The father blew out the candle, and settled back again, still dressed, save for his coat, and presently the small, weak hand sought the hard, strong, horny, knotted one; and so they lay, as was customary with them. After a while the father leaned over a little and whispered—
"Asleep, sonny?"
"No, father."
"Feel bad again?"
"No, father."
Pause.
"What are you thinking about, sonny?"
"Nothing, father."
"But what is it? What are you worrying about? Tell me."
"Nothing, father, only—it'll be a good while yet before I grow up to be a man, won't it, father?"
The father lay silent and troubled for a few moments.
"Why do you ask me that question to-night, sonny?
