I hope the little man will pull through.

Take care of yourself," and the usual formula.
She sat down and wrote a telegram, brutally brief, as telegrams must be.
"Died yesterday.

Funeral Friday, two o'clock.

Can you come ?" Two hours later the answer came in one word--"Impossible." She flushed violently and set her face like a flint.
But she showed no feeling.

None when they screwed the baby into a box lined with white satin; none when they lowered him into his grave and piled flowers and earth upon him; none when, as they drove home from the funeral, Mrs.Wilcox's pent-up emotions broke loose in a torrent of words.
Having gone through so much, it occurred to Mrs.Wilcox that the time had now come to look a little on the bright side of things.