She was gazing now into the depths of his soul with her
pensive hungry eyes.
"He good to your father, my son----" she paused for breath and looked at
him tenderly. She knew the father was the child of the future--this Boy,
the man.
"Yes!" he whispered.
"And love your sister----"
"Yes."
"Be a man among men, for your mother's sake----"
"Yes, Ma, I will!"
The little head bent low and the voice was silent.
They went to work to make her coffin at noon. An unused walnut log of
burled fibre had been lying in the sun and drying for two years, since
Tom had built the furniture for the cabin. Dennis helped him rip the
boards from this dark, rich wood, shape and plane it for the pieces he
would need.
The Boy sat with dry eyes and aching heart, making the wooden nails to
fasten these boards together.
He stopped suddenly, walked to the bench at which his father was working
and laid by his side the first pins he had whittled.
"I can't do it, Pa," he gasped. "I just can't make the nails for her
coffin. I feel like somebody's drivin' 'em through my heart!"
The rugged face was lighted with tenderness as he slowly answered:
"Why, we must make it, Boy--hit's the last thing we kin do ter show our
love fur her--ter make it all smooth an' purty outen this fine dark
wood. Yer wouldn't put her in the ground an' throw the cold dirt right
on her face, would you?"
The slim figure shivered:
"No--no--I wouldn't do that! Yes, I'll help--we must make it beautiful,
mustn't we?"
And then he went back to the pitiful task.
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