om exhaustion. The child gets oversprayed.
The man stirs the flaxseed--how soon the stuff dries out! He adds
water. He rinses his mouth. He arranges the mash on the cloths. It
is cold already, and he puts it on the sheet-iron of the stove.

But Davy is still. How to get the poultices changed? The man feels
about the blessed little body. A tide of tenderness sweeps through his
frame. Alas! the poultices are cold again, and hard.

They are doing no good.

"Esther, I beg pardon, but will you assist me with the flaxseed?"

"Certainly, David. Have I slept? Why did you not call me sooner?
Here, lamby! Here, lamby! Let mamma help you."

The poultices are to be heated again. The woman concludes the affair.
The man sits stretched in a chair, hands deep in pockets, one ankle
over the other, chin deep on his breast.

"Esther," he says at last, "it must be done! It must be done! Give
him to me!"

"Oh, David, don't hurt him!"

The man has turned to brute. He seizes the child as the spoiler of a
city might begin his rapine.

"Pour the medicine--quick!"

It is ready.

"Now, Davy, you must take this, or I don't know but papa will--I don't
know but papa will kill you."

Up and down the little form is hurled. Stubbornly the little will
contends for its own liberty. Rougher and rougher become the motions,
darker and darker becomes the man's face--Satanic now--a murderer, bent
on having his own will.

"Oh, David, David!"

"Keep still, Esther! I'll tolerate nothing from you!"

Has there been a surrender of the gasping child? The man is too
murderous to hear it.

"I'll take it, papa! I'll take it, papa!"

It is a poor, wheezing little cry, barely distinguishable. How long it
has been coming to the understanding of those terrible captors cannot
be known.

How eagerly does the shapely little hand clutch the spoon. "Another,"
he nods. It is swallowed. The golden head is hidden in the couch.

And David Lockwin sits trembling on the bed, gazing in hatred on the
medicine that has entered between him and his foundling.

"Papa had to do it! Papa had to do it! You will forgive him, pet?"
So the woman whispers.

There is no answer.

The man sprays the air. "You won't blame papa, will you, Davy?"

The answer is eager. "No, please! Please, papa!"

It is a reign of terror erected on the government of love. It is chaos
and asthma together.

"It is a horrible deed!" David Lockwin comments in