Dry-eyed this sorrowful woman had heard the sentence pronounced, dry eyed she had followed the little coffin to its grave; tears had not come even when waking from illusive dreams she put out her hand in bed to a child who was not there; but when she saw Tommy waiting at the door for Reddy, who had been dead for a month, her bosom moved and she could cry again.
Those tears were sweet to her husband, and it was he who took Tommy on his knee in the room where the books were, and told him that there was no Reddy now.

When Tommy knew that Reddy was a deader he cried bitterly, and the man said, very gently, "I am glad you were so fond of her." "'T ain't that," Tommy answered with a knuckle in his eye, "'t ain't that as makes me cry." He looked down at his trousers and in a fresh outburst of childish grief he wailed, "It's them!" Papa did not understand, but the boy explained.

"She can't not never see them now," he sobbed, "and I wants her to see them, and they has pockets!" It had come to the man unexpectedly.

He put Tommy down almost roughly, and raised his hand to his head as if he felt a sudden pain there.
But Tommy, you know, was only a little boy..