But how can I?
Man--man--your child is alive, and while there is life there is hope; but mine is dead--dead!" he almost shrieked.
"Dead!" said Hope, horrified.
"Dead," cried Bartley.

"Cut off at four years old, the very age of yours.
There--go and judge for yourself.

You are a father.

I can't look upon my blasted hopes, and my withered flower.

Go and see _my_ blue-eyed, fair-haired darling--clay, hastening to the tomb; and you will trouble me no more with your imaginary griefs." He flung himself down with his head on his desk.
Hope, following the direction of his hand, opened the door of the house, and went softly forward till he met the nurse.