bedside, said, as the despairing wife left the room,
"I'm sorry I've disappointed you so powerful, son. I know just how you feel. I made--" he glanced round to be sure she was gone--"just as bad a mistake one time, trying to make a present to myself."
The child lay quite still, vaguely considering whether that was any good reason why he should stop crying.
"But 'evomind, son, the ve'y next time we go to town we'll buy some cinnamon candy."
The son's eyes met the father's in a smile of love, the lids declined, the lashes folded, and his spirit circled softly down into the fathomless under-heaven of dreamless sleep.
It was nearly four o'clock of a day in early June. The sun shone exceptionally hot on the meagre waters of Turkey Creek, where it warmed its sinuous length through the middle of its wide battle-field. The turnpike, coming northward from Suez, emerged, white, dusty, and badly broken, on the southern border of this waste, and cross