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 the child with a foolish smile about his loose, weak mouth. Anthony sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He put his hand on the boy's thigh.

"I wish I could say something to you," he whispered. "You know what I mean: something that you could treasure up and that would be of help to you. I've always wanted to. When you used to ask questions and I was short with you, it was because I couldn't answer them. I used to lie awake at night and try to think them out. And then I thought that when I came to die something might happen, that perhaps I'd have a vision or something of that sort—they say that people do, you know—that would make it all plain to me and that I'd be able to tell you. But it hasn't come. I suppose I ain't the right sort. It all seems dark to me."

His mind wandered, and after a few incoherent words he closed his eyes again. He did not regain consciousness.

Anthony broke it to his mother—about everything having been sacrificed to the latest new invention.

"Lord love the man!" she answered. "Did he think I didn't know? We were just a pair of us. I persuaded myself it was going to pan out all right this time."