He was talking to himself, as was his fashion on these lonely walks.
"I think that fresh milk would have saved that child," he said, "but how was poor Thomas to buy fresh milk at fourpence a quart?
Laid up for three months as he has been and with six children, how was he to buy fresh milk?
I ought to have given it to him.

I could have done without these new boots till spring, damp feet don't matter to an old man.

But I thought of my own comfort--the son that doth so easily beset me--and so many to clothe and feed at home and poor Barbara, my darling Barbara, hanging between life and death." He sobbed and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, then began to pray, still aloud.
"O God of pity, in the name of the loving and merciful Christ, help me and poor Thomas in our troubles." "I ought to have put Thomas's name first--my selfishness again," he ejaculated, then went on: "Give consolation to Thomas who loved his baby, and if it pleases Thee in Thy infinite wisdom and foresight, spare my dearest Barbara's life, that she may live out her days upon the earth and perhaps in her turn give life to others.

I know I should not ask it; I know it is better that she should go and be with Thee in the immortal home Thou hast prepared for us unhappy, suffering creatures.

Yet--pity my poor human weakness--I do ask it.