unless it is absolutely necessary and then only by experienced hands. Surely, it would be very easy for you to withhold your gifts to the boys, or make them of a non-explosive character. You might try it next year and note the results in the death and accident list. I think it would not only be right for you to do so, but the part of wisdom, as quite a number, especially those mothers who have had their boys seriously hurt by the explosives which you have given them, are being very much exercised about the matter.”

“Bless their hearts!” exclaimed Schwarmer reddening perceptibly, “I suppose they think I own the Fourth of July and must run it and be responsible for everything that goes amiss. Now I suppose they’ll try to blame me for old Dan’s death. You know old Captain Dan Solomon—the expressman. He came up here yesterday and insisted on letting off the cannon. I couldn’t refuse him. It was Liberty day, you know. The day didn’t belong to me any more than it did to anybody else, nor the cannon either. I dedicated it to the town to begin with, so old Dan did as he chose. He was careless with it at the sundown charge and it burst and killed him. Come and see him. They have him all nicely laid out in the coachman’s apartment.”

“Indeed! I had not heard of this,” said Doctor Normander. He arose in astonishment and followed Mr. Schwarmer to the stable. One look was as much as he could endure. He turned away in silence and went wearily down the hill. He was convinced that Schwarmer did not give little Laurens Cornwallis the explosives that caused his death; but he was still more thoroughly convinced that he was responsible through his influence and example for the alarming increase of accidents in the town; but beyond all lay the dread conviction that the evil was coexistent with our body politic and that the parents and people in general had become so inured to it—so dead to its enormity that it would be well nigh impossible to bring about any essential reform.

The Saturday after the burial of Laurens Cornwallis, Dr. Normander rose feeling quite ill, but he would not give up. He seized his hat and went out to walk.

When he reached the first avenue he looked up and saw Father Ferrill crossing the street at a rapid pace.

“Father! Father!” he called out involuntarily, “has anything happened—anything more?” He held out both hands. He had never before felt so keenly the need of a brother worker, or rather a father worker. The aged priest came up, took his hands tenderly in his own and said:

“I have just been summoned to the bedside of the Widow Pressneau’s little boy. I fear it is a case of Tetanus beyond hope, it has developed so rapidly. On the Fourth he shot his hand with a toy pistol which was given him to celebrate with.”

“O Father! and yet another! Let me take your arm; I feel faint. The torn face of poor old Dan Solomon and the terrible death of Laurens Cornwallis have been too great a strain.”

They walked on in silence. As they neared the widow’s house, Father Ferrill said:

“If you have never witnessed a case of Tetanus I advise you not to go in, my son.”

“I never have, but I think I ought to know what is going on about me, Father, and perhaps I can help. I feel better now. I will hunt up Doctor Muelenberg if he is not already there. He has had a large experience in such cases.”

“That is very kind, my son; but I hardly think his services will be of any use. When the case develops so rapidly there is little chance of recovery. Besides, I know how to apply the usual remedies. Our people are so poor as a class that it is necessary we should be physicians to the body as well as the soul.”

“Still, I would go with you, Father. I must learn the needed lesson. This terrible thing is closing in upon us more and more. Why is it, Father?”

“War! War! primarily my son. This vile disease used to be the aftermath of battlefields in the old countries. Here it is the Independence Day disease; but the brute-elements are being let loose all over the world. They are growing too strong for us and we cannot hold them in leash,” whispered Father Ferrill as he opened the Widow Pressneau’s door noiselessly, pushed Dr. Normander in before him and shut it quickly. His next movement was to pull down the shades through which the hot July sun was streaming. The dexterity with which he performed the three essentials for the comfort of the patient afflicted with this fell disease was admirable, although it was of no use for the moment as the boy was in the throes of that species of mortal agony, before which the curtain is drawn all too often for the enlightenment of suffering humanity.

“Father! Father! what have I done that my child should be so tormented?” cried the mother as she sank down by the bedside with broken sobs and words of supplication.

The priest took her place and waited with crossed hands through convulsion after convulsion, each of which was more terrible than the former one until nothing worse could be imagined. The muscles were strained to their utmost tensity. The body was bent like a bow but the most unbearable of all was the drawn face and the awful semblance of laughter that has been fitly called risus sardonicus. Dr. Normander closed his eyes and the mother cried out again in direst agony:

“Father! Father! what have I done that the evil spirits should take possession of my child?”

“Poor mother, thou hast been more sinned against than sinning I perceive; but hasten now and get hot cloths ready for the next attack; for there will doubtless be another and another, although his face shows signs of relaxing and he may be able to speak to thee and answer thy questionings.”

The mother went out and the boy lay as still as a stone under the Priest’s treatment for a few moments. Then he gave a great gasp and cried:

“Mother! Mother! Forgive me before I go. I minded the rich man. I should have minded thee. The rich man said the little play-pistol would not hurt me. It did hurt me, mother. It was a foul fiend.” He took the cross in his little wounded hand and clasped it like a vise against his heart and even into the tender flesh until it left its mark there. His lips twitched and quivered as though they were being drawn again into the awful laugh.

“Risus sardonicus,” cried the priest, “Jesus have mercy!”

“Jesus have mercy!” cried the mother.

“Jesus have mercy!” whispered Dr. Normander.

“Jesus have mercy!” cried the boy in a note of triumph. The strained lips relaxed and parted with a heavenly smile and the widow’s child had gone to meet the widow’s God.