open as if to admit as much air as possible.

"I shouldn't wonder if grandpa was worse," said 'Lena, hurrying him
along and ushering him at once into the sick-room.

At first Mrs. Nichols did not observe him, for she was bending
tenderly over the white, wrinkled face, which lay upon the small,
scanty pillow. John thought "how small and scanty they were," while
he almost shuddered at the sound of his footsteps upon the uncarpeted
floor. Everything was dreary and comfortless, and his conscience
reproached him that his old father should die so poor, when he
counted his money by thousands.

As he passed the window his tall figure obscured the fading daylight,
causing his mother to raise her head, and in a moment her long, bony
arms were twined around his neck. The cruel letter, his long
neglect, were all forgotten in the joy of once more beholding her
"darling boy," whose bearded cheek she kissed again and again. John
was unused to such demonstrations of affection, except, indeed, from
his little golden-haired Anna, who was _refined_ and _polished_, and
all that, which made a vast difference, as he thought. Still, he
returned his mother's greeting with a tolerably good grace, managing,
however, to tear himself from her as soon as possible.

"How is my father?" he asked; and his mother replied, "He grew worse
right away after 'Leny went out, and he seemed so put to't for
breath, that Nancy went for the doctor----"

Here a movement from the invalid arrested her attention and going to
the bedside she saw that he was awake. Bending over him she
whispered softly, "John has come. Would you like to see him?"

Quickly the feeble arms were outstretched, as if to feel what could
not be seen, for the old man's eyesight was dim with the shadows of
death.

Taking both his father's hands in his, John said, "Here I am, father;
can't you see me?"

"No, John, no; I can't see you." And the poor man wept like a little
child. Soon growing more calm, he continued: "Your voice is the same
that it was years ago, when you lived with us at home. That hasn't
changed, though they say your name has. Oh, John, my boy, how could
you do so? 'Twas a good name--my name--and you the only one left to
bear it. What made you do so, oh John, John?"

Mr. Livingstone did not reply, and after a moment his father again
spoke; "John, lay your hand on my forehead. It's cold as ice. I am
dying, and your mother will be left alone. We are poo