"Don't move, Barry," whispered his father. "I like you there."
With their faces thus together they fell asleep.
Barry was awakened by his father's voice, clear and strong.
"Are you there, Barry?" it said.
"Here, dad, right here!"
"Good boy. Good boy. You won't leave me, Barry. I mean you don't need to
go?"
"No, dad, I'll never leave you."
"Good boy," again murmured his father softly. "Always a good boy,
always, always--"
He was breathing heavily, long deep breaths.
"Lift me up, Barry," he said.
Barry sat on the bed, put his arm around his father's shoulders, and
lifted him up.
"That's better--hold me closer, Barry--You won't hurt me--Oh, it's
good--to feel--your arms--strong arms--Barry."
"You made them strong, dad," said Barry, in a clear, steady voice.
The father nestled his head upon his son's shoulder.
"Barry," he said in the low tone of one giving a confidence, "don't
ever forget--to thank God--for these eighteen years--together--You saved
me--from despair--eighteen years ago--when she went away--you know--and
you have been--all the world to me--my son--"
"And you to me, dad," said his son in the same steady tone.
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