"Bruv-ver--Jim," he begged. "Bruv-ver--Jim."
Then, at last, the gray old miner understood the whole significance of
the baby words. "Bruvver Jim" meant more than just himself; it meant
the three little girls--associates--children--all that is dear to a
childish heart--all that is indispensable to baby happiness--all that a
lonely little heart must have or starve.
Jim groaned, for the utmost he could do was done when he took the
sobbing little fellow in his arms and murmured him words of comfort as
he carried him up and down the room.
The day that followed, and the day after that, served only to deepen
the longing in the childish breast. The worried men of Borealis played
on the floor in desperation. They fashioned new wagons, sleds, and
dolls; they exhausted every device their natures prompted; but beyond a
sad little smile and the call for "Bruvver Jim" they received no answer
from the baby heart,
At the end of a week the little fellow smiled no more, not even in his
faint, sweet way of yearning. His heart was starving; his grave, baby
thought was far away, with the small red caps and the laughing voices
of children.
The fond Miss Doc and the gray old Jim alone knew what the end must be,
inevitably, unless some change should speedily come to pass.
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